


It Still Matters

by Aneonmoose, Meganodaly12



Category: T2 Trainspotting, Trainspotting (Movies), Trainspotting Series - Irvine Welsh
Genre: Adultery, Angst, Babies, Blood, Break Up, But also, Cocaine, Death, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Violence, Drinking, Drugs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fights, Friends to Lovers, Gay Parents, Heroin, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Like heartbreaking angst, M/M, Make Up, Near Death Experiences, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, SO GAY, SO VERY GAY, Sickfic, Slow Burn, Swearing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Violence, parenting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2018-10-29 16:04:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 46,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10857378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aneonmoose/pseuds/Aneonmoose, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meganodaly12/pseuds/Meganodaly12
Summary: In the end, they know this is exactly where they belong.[I cannot write summaries, sorry. Co-written with my amazing friend Megan. We have no schedule but will aim to update as often as possible. Title from the incredible, amazing song by Peter Garrett. Go listen to it. It's beautiful. Previously titled 'It's Like That' and 'What It Is' Sorry about the title changes but, as with many things, I can't settle on one thing for too long. I promise this is the last one!]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoy! Comments and kudos are always appreciated, as is creative criticism.

_Vzzzzzt. Vzzzzzt. Vzzzzzt._

 

  
Simon's space grey iPhone buzzes incessantly on the coffee table, vibrating the coffee mug Mark had left on its surface. It had been ringing since the blonde man had gone to the shower precisely 15 minutes prior. The device is sitting abandoned, face down as it calls out to its owner, to no avail. The feeble sound emitting from its internals is drowned out by the hum of the shower running and eventually, the calls cease.

***

Mark leans against the door as he frowns down at his phone, cradling the shopping bag with the same arm while he rummages in his pockets for the keys. As ever, they're on the same side as the shopping, resulting in an uncomfortable manoeuvre until finally, the door swings open and Mark steps in, sighing in relief as he sets the bag down. He hears the shower shut off and smiles slightly, wondering how his friend can stand sleeping in so long. It's barely midday and the older man has already been to the gym, shop and stopped in for a coffee on the way back. Heading towards the sitting room, he hangs up his jacket and scarf, eyes still trained on the device in his hand. His frustrations rise with every second he doesn't get a response but it doesn't look like one's coming, so he drops his phone onto the couch and drops onto it ungracefully, listlessly turning the TV on just as his flatmate enters the room.

  
"What's on?" Simon asks, a white towel around his hips while he rubs at his hair with another, smaller towel.

  
"Fuck all," Renton responds and _doesn't stare_ at the way the muscles in his friend's chest tighten with each movement. The phone on the table resumes its serenade of vibrations and Simon arches an eyebrow, not expecting any calls. Mark wordlessly hands him the device and emits a low whistle when he spots the number of missed calls. "Seems like you're needed, Sicks."

  
"Aye, better be fuckin' important, 10 missed calls in a row?" He muses, bringing the phone to his ear. "'Ello? ... Aye, Simon Williamson speaking." Mark watches his friend pace around the room as he listens to the voice on the other end, murmuring acknowledgements every so often. The longer the conversation lasts, the deeper the frown etched on the blond's face. Eventually, he steps into the kitchen and grabs a pen, impatiently scribbling on a receipt to activate the ink. "What's the address? Aye, 4 pm suits. Cheers." With a shaky sigh, Simon lets the phone slip from his hand onto the counter with a clatter. Immediately, Mark is worried.

  
"Simon, what's happened?" The blond man is chewing his lip, staring into the distance. His hands are shaking and he's hyperventilating, causing Mark to jump up off the sofa and rush to his friend's side, grabbing his shoulders firmly in an attempt to ground him in reality. Finally, wide gunmetal eyes focus on his own and Mark can see the sheer panic in them. "Simon..."

  
"Rents, I - I- " Simon being lost for words is definitely a cause for concern so Mark gently pushes his friend towards the black sofa and sits him down on it, perching himself on the coffee table across his friend. "I, um... Shit. I'm a father, Mark. A fucking _father_!" Suddenly, Simon's face contorts into a furious grimace and the towel he's been using to dry his hair is being flung across the room in a rage. "I don't want a fuckin' child!" Mark leans back in shock, pulse thrumming in his ears. "I can't do it, Rents, I can't. I can't go through this again." The anger is gone as fast as it had appeared, replaced by insecurity and pain. Their eyes meet and Mark's breath hitches in his throat at the raw emotion on his mate's face.

  
"Shh, Sicks. Breathe." The brunet commands and exhales in relief when his friend obeys, taking shaky breaths. "From the beginning -- what happened?" Simon swallows and sighs, hanging his head as he runs a hand through his damp hair.

  
"Well... Shit, there was this bird up in Glasgow. We had been seeing each other for a couple weeks but she decided she wasn't up for a long term thing so we broke it off. I haven't spoken to her in months and I just got a call from the fuckin' NSPCC sayin' she'd had a child and was unfit to care for it and since I was listed on the birth cert, I have to take over custody. Mark, I can't - Look at the fuckin' flat, how the fuck will I care for a child if I can barely take care of myself?!" Mark opens and closes his mouth multiple times, completely lost as to what he should say. Nothing sounds right. Eventually, he decides to simply drape a blanket over his friend's bare back. They remain in silence, broken only by Simon's muffled sobs.

***

  
"For fuck's sake!" Simon growls, tugging at his tie with trembling hands. Mark suppresses a sigh and gets off Simon's bed, making his way over to the blonde man. His eyes are red and tired, yet somehow they look more vivid than ever. Shaking his head slightly to dismiss that thought, Mark adjusts his flatmate's tie and places a hand on his shoulder.

  
"Sure you don't want me to come with you?" Simon nods silently, chewing on his thumb nail. "Sicks, look at me. Things are not as they were two decades ago." Hoping Simon understands the hidden meaning behind his words, Renton steps aside as his friend walks out. His suit fits him well and yet he looks like a shell of himself, like a child forced to act like an adult. Averting his gaze, Mark follows and shuts the door with a click. Simon dons his jacket and grabs his phone, promising to call as soon as the meeting with the social worker ends. Nodding, Mark steps into the sitting room as the front door shuts and he's left in deafening silence. A sudden sound from his phone startles him and he curses under his breath as he unlocks the device.

  
**You have a new match!**

  
He feels a stab of annoyance in his chest but he pushes his ex-wife from his thoughts, tapping the notification. If she wants to be passive aggressive, Mark isn't going to humiliate himself begging her to respond. As the app loads, he wonders if it's not too soon to 'get back out there', as Simon puts it. Truth be told, he's gotten used to the routine of suburban life. He had a steady job, an ostensibly faithful wife, a semi-detached house with an impossible mortgage, a wide circle of people very loosely fitting the definition of 'friend' and an elderly rescued dog with a Valium prescription. Still, one can get used to anything after enough time and 20 years definitely wore him down enough that he felt his life couldn't get better. No more drugs, no more psychopathic, amoral, junkie excuses for mates, no more scams, no more stealing. It was the most boring time of his life and yet he took it at face value, unable to believe how lucky he was to have turned his life around and become a functioning member of society... and then his heart gave out. The illusion was shattered from then on. His marriage had been falling apart for years but when he discovered her affairs, he knew it was over. Blaming it on his infertility, she filed for divorce and that was that. His peaceful, normal, mind-numbingly dull life was over. There were no children to divide, no significant investments, savings or property, so Mark gathered up 20 years of his life into a duffel bag and got on the first plane back to Edinburgh, an inexplicable grin on his matured face. He knew it wasn't going to be smooth sailing just because of yet another fresh start, but he hoped he could do it right this time. Looking around at the flat, Mark feels content in the fact that he hasn't fucked up too much. After all, he still has decades to learn from his mistakes and right now, supporting Simon and meeting new people is exactly what he needs. With a sense of purpose, he glances down onto the phone and sees a message from his match.

  
_Hey there, what do you do for a living, besides being attractive as hell?_

  
Snorting with incredulous laughter, the brunet taps out a response, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table.

 

**You can do better than that, can't you?**

  
His phone dings almost immediately and he feels himself relaxing properly for the first time in a while.

  
_Sorry, all I've got is clichés and crappy pick up lines ;)_

  
**Is there such thing as a good pick up line?**

  
_Touché. What do you do, though? _

  
Mark hesitates, then shakes his head. Not like 20 years ago. No more lies.

  
**Well, it's not very impressive, but I work at a real estate agency near the Uni and help out in my mate's pub on busy nights. You?**

  
_I'm a boring accountant, nothing special. You an Edinburgh native?_

  
**Born and raised. You're from Birmingham, aren't you? Saw it in your bio...**

  
_Yeah, but I've been living in Edinburgh for about 5 years now. What area of Edinburgh are you in? Maybe we could grab a coffee in the centre?_

  
**Leith. Sounds good :)**

  
_Great! Are you at work tomorrow?_

  
**Not till later. 11am?**

  
_Sure :) See you then, Mark_

  
Mark drops his phone onto the sofa with a contented sigh, flicking through channels on TV, hoping something good is on. Unfortunately, as ever, it's all reruns of bland soap operas or depressing news broadcasts. Humming in thought, he kneels down in front of the screen and scans the rows of DVDs Simon has lined up. He reckons he'll have enough time to finish a movie before Simon calls so he picks one at random and lounges on the couch, eyes sliding shut midway through the film. 

***

  
Some time later, Mark is startled out of his peaceful sleep by a shrill ringing from his phone. Groaning, he stretches his stiff limbs, grimacing at the popping joints, as he reaches for the device, seeing Simon's caller ID flash on screen but just as he swipes to answer, the call terminates. Almost immediately after, Simon texts him to meet him in the pub so Renton shuffles to his room, hoping to look less like he'd just slept by changing into jeans and a t-shirt then grabs his keys and leaves the flat, trekking down the road to the pub.

  
As he steps in, the door creaking softly, he's hit by the smell of cigarette smoke and sees Simon sitting on the pool table, a glowing cigarette in his hand as he stares at the ceiling, too deep in thought to notice his friend's arrival. Mark notes absently that they're the only ones in the building, which isn't that unusual, given the pub's total lack of appeal. Mark has often suggested they renovate to make it more attractive to tourists, only to be met with a derisive snort and a comment about where he thinks they'd get the money from. With a small sigh, Mark shuts the door behind him and ambles over to his friend, smirking when he spots the tightly clutched cue in his friend's hand.

  
''Not gonna break that over my back again, are ya?" Simon startles out of his thoughts and grins briefly, glint in his eye.

  
"Dunno, you gonna disappear for 20 years and then show up outta nowhere?" Mark smiles but it fades fast, replaced by a frown.

  
"I'm not gonna do that to you again." Simon averts his gaze, pink creeping up his neck. He hops down, handing a cue to Mark and aligns the cueballs on the green felt, desperate to change the subject. Neither of them have ever been great at opening up to people so Mark accepts the cue with a relieved sigh, watching his friend calculate the best angle for his shot. "So. How'd it go?"

  
Simon clears his throat as he hits the balls, watching them scatter around the table.

  
"Her name is Eilidh," He says finally, licking his lips, "She's 3 months old and her mother willingly gave up custody."

  
"That's... good, innit? No court battles over it, she's yours?"

  
"Not quite that easy..." Simon sighs, setting down his cue. "I need a drink." Mark frowns but puts away his cue, following his friend to the bar. He silently prepares two glasses of whisky and hands one to Mark who sits down at the other side of the counters, waiting for Simon to continue. "I'm to contact them in a week with my decision. If I decide to accept custody, they'll do drug tests, check criminal records, do home tours, neighbour interviews, finance checks, everything."

  
"Why so much?"

  
"Fuck if I know. Apparently, it's standard procedure because I wasn't around when she was born but..." Simon trails off, taking a swig. Mark hums in acknowledgement, sipping the amber liquid. For a while, the only sounds in the room are the soft jazz music quietly playing from the speakers and the clinking of ice against glass. "Mark." The older man looks up, seeing the panicked expression on his friend's face.

  
"Aye?"

  
"What do I do? I mean... I haven't the faintest idea about how to care for babies... I'm not exactly father material. I -" His voice cracks and Mark feels his heart do the same. "I don't want to get attached and then lose her like I lost D-" The bleached blond chokes on the word and attempts to hide it by taking another sip but Mark bites his lip, seeing through the facade.

  
"Sicks, you're not the same Simon I knew years ago, and I'm not the same Mark. I will _not_ leave again. I can't decide for you, but if you do choose to take over custody, I will be here. Spud is clean too, he has a son, he'll help as well. You won't be alone in this." The two men share a gaze, Mark noticing the tears welling in Simon's eyes so he looks away, standing up from his seat. "Anyway, up for a game of pool?"   
Simon nods and follows, footsteps resounding in the large room. Mark smiles despite himself. Things are fine, he thinks, and right now, he couldn't hope for more. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay! Hope the longer chapter makes up for it. Comments are always lovely so don't be shy, shoot us a message :)

_ Simon shuts the door and exhales loudly, watching his breath fog up in the November chill. He wishes he'd stolen Mark's scarf but he knows that if he turns back, he won't leave. He's always been a disappointment, mostly to himself. It's time to change that. Mark is right - it's not the 90s anymore, he isn't the same man he was back then. Turning up the collar for his trench coat, he shoves his hands into his pockets and jogs down the steps, hanging his head to shield his face from the biting wind. _

 

_ As the tram shudders to a stop, Simon is impatiently stabbing the door release button, itching for a smoke. The moment the doors part wide enough he's out, fumbling in his pockets for the pack. He panics, already scanning the area for the nearest corner shop, when he realises they just slipped down the tear in his pocket. Exhaling in relief, he lights one and heads towards the imposing grey building at the other side of the street. He loiters on the steps while he rapidly finishes his smoke, the nicotine rush making him lightheaded. Instead of the normal relaxation, the cigarette only makes him feel sick and he grimaces, crushing it underneath his heel. He knows he's stalling but he can't make himself push the door open. He seriously considers getting on the tram back when a woman exits the building, shooting him a judgemental look as she struts away and that's the push he needs to grab the door before it shuts and step inside. _

 

_ Immediately, he's hit by a blast of hot air and he unbuttons his coat, scanning the area. The walls are painted a disgusting, faded pea-soup green and the floor is what was once white linoleum but is now grey and scuffed. Sighing, Simon walks up to the reception desk where a young blonde woman is painting her nails an alarming shade of pink with a bored expression on her face. Simon purses his lips, leaning on the wooden counter and clearing his throat to get her attention. She scoffs, looking thoroughly pissed off that anyone dares interrupt her and Simon arches an eyebrow condescendingly, not in the mood to deal with anyone, much less someone as irritating as the woman staring at him. _

 

_ "Appointment for 4pm." He announces through gritted teeth, knowing making a scene will not get him anything and hating it. She rolls her eyes and taps at the keyboard, an awkward silence settling between them. _

_ "Name?" _

 

_ "Williamson." Simon grunts, crossing his arms across his chest. The woman points at the floor listing on the wall and goes back to doing her nails, leaving the man to find his own way. He shakes his head slightly and consults the listing, discovering that the social worker's office is on the top floor. Stepping into the old lift, he stares at himself in the mirror and wonders what the hell he's doing there. _

***

 

_ The door to the office is ajar so Simon knocks once and then steps in, biting his lip. The social worker smiles curtly at him and gestures towards the two plastic chairs across from her oak desk, shuffling some papers while she waits for him to sit. He takes a moment to take in his surroundings, noting with relief that the walls are a warm orange with a few abstract paintings hung up. Aside from those, the room is sparsley decorated and it feels even more alien than the lobby. Exhaling slightly, Simon looks at the woman in front of him who is watching him with a frown on her face. Her cropped black hair is neatly pinned back, not a strand out of place. Simon absently wonders if she's really such a perfectionist or just puts on an act for work. _

 

_ "Hello, my name is Donna," she speaks finally, "and I'll be your compulsory social worker from now on." Her voice is cool, monotone yet with a slight hint of judgement. Simon nods and she continues. "As you already know, we contacted you with regards to your daughter, Eilidh Gilmour. Her mother, Ciara, was judged unfit to care for her daughter and because you are her biological father, custody can be transferred to you." _

 

_ "Why unfit?" Simon interrupts and Donna purses her lips. _

 

_ "She was arrested for possession of hard drugs. The living environment was too dangerous for her child, and her hair showed use of said drugs in the previous three months." _

 

_ "Right. Um... So, what now?" Simon hates himself for being unable to form full sentences and he clears his throat awkwardly, waiting for Donna to speak. _

 

_ "Well, you should know you have no legal obligation to accept custody. In the event that you should, a home visit, drug test and neighbour interviews will be required before we release her care to you. However, due to your criminal history," Simon freezes but does his best to keep his face a mask of indifference, "in relation to drug use, you will be required to attend either a public addiction group or a private addiction specialist for three months. During this time, you will be required to provide bi-weekly drug tests and monthly home visits from social workers. You will also need to show that you can provide for a child, such as an address and contact number for an employer, a separate bedroom for her, toys, furniture and clothing. If all goes well within these three months, you will officially be her legal guardian." _

 

_ "I see..." Simon murmurs, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. "How long do I have to decide?" _

 

_ "Well, as soon as possible would be great. She's only 3 months old and it's this critical time of her life where a steady guardian is vital. Currently she's in the care of a foster family in Glasgow but that is temporary. Do you think you'd be able to contact us within the week so that we could begin the transfer process?" She asks, standing up. Simon follows, shaking her extended hand. He's acutely aware that his own hands are trembling and he mentally chides himself for it. _

 

_ "Yeah, um... Yeah, I'll do that." _

 

_ "Fantastic. I look forward to hearing from you, Mr Williamson." She flashes a slightly more genuine smile and he nods curtly, turning around to leave the office. As soon as the door shuts, he collapses onto the seats outside and stares at the wall wide-eyed for what feels like hours. _

 

***

 

Every clothing item Mark owns is presently strewn haphazardly on the light gray carpet as the man in question frantically rifles through the pile. "The fuck do you even wear to a date with an accountant?" He mumbles to himself, picking up a red t-shirt and grimacing, throwing it behind himself. Sighing, he stands up and shakes his head. "Fuck clothes for now, I need a shower. Shit, gotta stop talking to myself. Fuck."

 

"Ya think?" Simon pipes up from behind Mark and the brunet whirls around, startled, to see his roommate leaning against the door frame with an amused expression and a glass of water in his hand, which he sips innocently. "What the hell are you even doing?"

"What's it look like?" Mark murmurs impatiently, shoving past Simon to head to the bathroom. He can hear Simon follow and he rolls his eyes, grabbing a towel from the hotpress. "Ugh, what the hell will I wear?"

 

"Purple button down is nice. Brings out your eyes." Simon drawls, a smirk clear in his voice. Mark flashes him the two fingered salute and runs a hand through his hair, glancing at the clock above him with a grimace. "Fine, fuck you, last time I give you a genuine compliment, you dick."

 

The older man scoffs but bites his lip, turning towards his friend. "You really think I should-?"

 

"Nah, you aren't gonna listen to my opinion anyway." Simon shrugs, pouting. Mark squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself to take a deep breath.

 

"Fuck, fine. Move over," Renton sighs, grabbing the aforementioned shirt and his nicest pair of navy jeans. "Yeah?"

 

"Sure." Simon nods in approval, gesturing towards the pile of shoes on the other side of the room. "Date, innit? Or work?"

 

"I -" Mark freezes. "Date. How'd you know?"

 

"You only turn into such a nancy when you've a date."

 

"Oh, fuck you, Mr. Knockoff Armani." Mark mocks, annoyance set into his features. Simon chokes on his drink and coughs accusingly, brushing down his shirt with his free hand.

 

“Excuse you, this shit’s fuckin’ genuine.”

 

“And stolen.” Mark mumbles under his breath and Simon shoots him an icy glare. 

 

"Okay, well, dick, where you meeting her?"

 

"Café."

 

"Hm. Wear the grey chelseas." Simon speaks, shrugging. Mark eyes his friend carefully before quirking an eyebrow and setting the shoes aside, once more heading for the bathroom. "What's her name?" He yells, just as the door shuts. Sighing, he heads for the sitting room, feeling a headache forming behind his eyes.  _ Knockoff Armani. The fucking cheek. _

***

The muffled hum of the shower drowns out the television but it doesn't matter, no-one's watching. Simon sits on the white kitchen counter, waiting for the kettle to boil. He gazes warily around the kitchen and imagines a tin of baby formula, baby food jars, brightly-coloured plastic crockery filling the space and he bites his lip hard, sighing. The flat is definitely big enough for three, but it's not baby friendly. His gear is all over the place, despite Mark's disapproval, there's mold on the walls of the spare, it's cluttered and messy and most importantly, it’s not in a great area. He wasn't very excited about this whole parenting lark and that prissy social worker telling him he'll need drug tests, parenting classes, all of this shit he never planned for hasn’t helped a bit. He's going to have to change his entire life and he hates change. He's never been good with it. Not twenty years ago, not forty, not now.

 

He needs a hit.

 

He's about to hop off and cook up when he scoffs at himself. He can't, not with Mark still in the flat, watching him like a fucking hawk. He only grimaces when Simon takes coke, but he thinks he's off the smack and Simon barely wants to consider what Mark will do if he finds out he very much isn't. Mark snaps his fingers in front of Simon's face and the blond flinches, having been unaware of his flatmate's presence. He's not dressed yet, Simon notes, but has put on his jeans, still towelling his hair off. A sudden want to see him out of the trousers hits Simon and he shakes his head, frowning in disgust at himself. He  _ really _ needs that hit.

"Oi, Sicks, wake up, ya doss cunt."

 

"What?"

 

"I was asking if you'd kindly move your arse so that I can get myself some coffee." Mark grins despite the harshness of his words but it falls as soon as he catches a glimpse of Simon's watch. "Ah, fuck! I'll be late! Sicks, be nice for once, make me a coffee, eh?" Mark says, not waiting for a response as he jogs to his room, returning while buttoning his shirt.

 

"You're going for a fucking coffee, why'd you need to drink one now?"

 

"I like living on the edge," Mark grins, pointing to his surgery scar. Simon rolls his eyes. 

"What's the matter with you? Are you jealous?"

 

" _ What _ ?" Simon barks, then feels his cheeks flush red. God damn it.

 

"I'll take that as a yes."

"What the fuck would I be jealous of, you knobhead?"

 

"When's the last time you pulled, huh?" Simon glares daggers at Mark who walks away, chuckling. The blond deliberately makes the coffee too strong, hoping to irritate his friend, who, to his dismay, returns fully clothed and downs the hot beverage, barely reacting at all. "You should try Tinder. Or would you have a better time on Grindr?" He chortles and laughs harder when Simon aims, and misses, a kick at him.

 

"Fuck you."

 

"Gotta go. Do I look okay?" He asks and bites his lip, cockiness gone. Simon nods and Mark grins again. Simon hates how cute that fucking grin is and even more hates the fact that he considers it cute. He wonders what the fuck is wrong with him but he doesn't particularly want to analyse it.

 

"Go. Don't keep her waiting, Romeo." Mark laughs and shrugs on a grey peacoat, shutting the door with a quiet click. Simon listens to his rapid footsteps on the steps until they disappear, and he exhales a breath he hadn't known he was holding. Finally.

***

The café is a quaint, hole-in-the-wall place, with the name, 'Lava Java', spray painted using a stencil onto a roughly cut slab of wood overhead. The exterior is painted black, with red accents and there are two raw wood tables outside, despite the rain. Arching an eyebrow, Mark steps inside and is hit by the comforting warm smell of coffee and cinnamon. The interior is done in a modern retro style, with one wall being stone-paved while the rest are smooth wood. Quirking a smile, Mark glances around and spots his date at the corner window, sipping at a mug while watching the rain roll off the glass. They're wearing a baby blue button-up and white chinos with a navy sports jacket hung over the back of the chair. Their hair is dirty blonde, tousled yet put together and Mark smiles slightly, partly wishing he could do anything with his hair, then remembering the effort Simon goes through to keep up his bleached look and immediately feels better about his crew cut. Taking a deep breath, Mark approaches the table, biting his lip.

 

"Ryan?" He asks and the man in front of him glances up, breaking out into a toothy grin as he stands, opening his arms. Mark accepts the gesture, hugging back, although he feels his breath being pushed out with the force of the hug. Still, he hasn't hugged anyone in a while so he lets himself melt into the embrace, suppressing a sigh when the other man pulls away.

 

"Mark! Hi!" Ryan smiles and eyes him up and down, making Mark wish he'd worn something more dressy."You look... wow." He lets out an airy chuckle and Mark rolls his eyes playfully.

 

"I bet you say that to all the girls," he sits down across from Ryan's seat and the blond follows, "but you're not so bad yourself."

"Would you like a drink?" His voice is husky, almost like gravel coated in honey. Mark wants to slap himself for even thinking of that comparison and yet, Ryan's voice speaking his name stirs something in his gut that he'd rather not acknowledge.

 

"Only if you're buyin'" Mark beams and Ryan chuckles, standing once more as he heads towards the counter. The brunet takes the opportunity to shamelessly sweep his eyes up and down Ryan’s toned frame, smirking in satisfaction. The other man returns almost immediately, handing Mark a cup.

 

"What's this?"

 

"Secret menu item. Try it." Mark shrugs and takes a sip, unable to stop the lewd groan that escapes his throat. Ryan grins and sips his own drink, clearly enjoying Mark's immediate embarrassment.

 

"Holy  _ shit _ , that's good. What even is this?" Ryan just smiles and looks away, leaving Mark wondering what he was just given. Still, the drink tastes like honey, cinnamon, coffee and  _ warmth _ so he drinks it, a comfortable silence falling between them. Finally, Mark breaks it. "So... nice place you've chosen..." His date eyes him cautiously then chortles. 

 

"You hate it." 

 

"Well, no, it's perfectly quaint... just a touch... eccentric?" Ryan laughs louder, nodding. 

 

"It is, isn't it? But they do great coffee -"

 

"God, yeah -"

 

"- and it's run by my brother, so ... scratch that, eccentric is probably an understatement where he’s involved." Ryan chuckles and leans forward slightly. Mark's heart skips a beat and he chides himself for acting like a teenager with a crush. "If you hate it, we can always go somewhere else?"

 

"Yeah? Like where?" Ryan smirks and Mark laughs quietly, picking at a stray thread on his jeans, suddenly shy. 

 

"Tempting offer," he speaks, looking up, "but isn't it a touch early -?"

 

"What, to ask you to my flat for a coffee and a movie?" Mark grins.

 

"Cheeky git." Flashing a dazzling smile at Mark, Ryan stands and extends his hand, holding an umbrella with the other.

 

"Shall we?"

***

The rain beats down on the black umbrella in syncopation to the clicking of their boots as they walk along the busy streets in comfortable silence, arms brushing with every step and driving Mark insane. Finally, he takes initiative and interlaces their fingers, smiling at the blush creeping up Ryan's cheeks. Ryan's hand is soft, smooth and near-unblemished, excluding the slightly thickened skin on his knuckles. Mark feels acutely aware of his own rough, calloused and dry hands and he shifts uncomfortably, hoping Ryan doesn't mind it too much.

 

"So, Mark," Ryan clears his throat, "travel anywhere interesting lately?" Mark smiles slightly and drops his gaze to his shoes, mulling over his answer.

 

"Actually, I spent 20 years in Amsterdam... although it was only interesting in the first few weeks."

 

"That's a long time! What made you move there?" Mark kicks himself for bringing it up. He could've just as easily lied that he went to Italy for a while, regardless of the fact that he'd never been there, although Simon’s told him enough to fake it. 

 

"It's a... long story."

 

"Ah." Ryan seems to get the hint, squeezing Mark's hand reassuringly. "I went there recently, actually. I thought it was a very colourful place, unlike here." He laughs slightly and Mark shrugs.

 

"Sometimes, grey and familiar is better than colourful and alien. Then again, anywhere would be great if you were there with me." Ryan flushes again and Mark relishes in the sight, vowing to see it as often as possible as they reach a wrought iron gate which Ryan opens with the click of a button, gesturing for Mark to head in first. He cranes his neck to look at the imposing apartment block, knowing immediately that it's so far out of his budget, it's laughable. Still, he does his best to act nonchalant, turning his back to Ryan who smiles sheepishly. "Impressive."

 

"I know I am." They both grin, heading towards the glass entrance doors along the gravel path. "Top floor." Ryan murmurs, reaching over Mark to get to the lift buttons, causing the older man to suddenly feel hot. Damn this bastard.

 

***

 

They exit onto a narrow hallway, heading towards the only door. The blond man unlocks it with a flourish, stepping aside to allow Mark to walk inside the penthouse, his boots clicking on the massive white tiles lining the floor.

 

"Holy fuck." He utters, eyes wide. There is no hallway, the door leading directly to the lounge with an open kitchen to the left of the wide sofa, the stark whiteness of the fabric broken by pastel green cushions immaculately laid out on it. A cream shag carpet underneath a glass coffee table separate the sofa from the 65'' TV hanging on the birch wall, underneath which a black-potted pachira stands. There's a stone-walled electric fireplace behind the sofa, against the glass stairs leading to the second floor. The kitchen is composed of smooth white counters, with green-padded stools against the breakfast bar. There are green and black accents but they are perfectly added, doing nothing to soften the clinical look of the room. Even without closer inspection, Mark can tell everything is spotless and he scarcely dares breathe for fear of spreading dust or lint anywhere. The balcony is fairly small when compared to the flat but there are two wicker chairs, shielded by a free standing umbrella. He turns to face Ryan, a bewildered look on his face and Ryan smiles sheepishly.

 

"God, sorry for the mess. Wait," he says, before Mark has time to ask what mess, and straightens the pillows slightly, running a hand through his hair.

 

"Where the hell do you work, Ry? What accountant can afford  _ this _ ?! Did you rob a bank?" Ryan snorts, shaking his head. 

 

"Okay, so I'm not just an accountant. I'm the CFO for Sinclair Hotels." Mark blinks at Ryan, wondering what insane hallucinogenic drug Simon has slipped him. "Um... Mark? You okay?" Mark shakes his head slightly, snapping himself back to reality.

 

"Sorry. I'm sorry, I just - Sinclair Hotels? Holy hell, Ryan." Ryan grins, shrugging off his jacket and extending his hand to take Mark's. 

 

"Take a seat, I'll go hang these up." Mark nods, perching himself on the edge of the sofa, feeling incredibly out of place but doing his best to relax. "The remote's on the coffee table,

try find something decent, eh?" Ryan yells to him. Mark nods despite not being seen and flicks through the channels, sighing in resignation when he finds nothing even vaguely interesting. Ryan suddenly flops down next to him and smiles at Mark's expression. 

 

"Anything?"

 

"Fuck all, unless you want to watch the shopping channel or soaps."

 

"I don't mind, long as you're watching it with me." Mark bites his lip and smiles, grabbing hold of the remote once more. "Want a coffee?"

 

"Sure. No milk, no sugar." Ryan nods and walks over to the kitchen, pushing some buttons on a huge coffee maker while he grabs clear glass mugs and places them underneath the outlet. "This gonna be another mystery drink?"

 

"Unfortunately, I don't have the knowledge my brother does. Most I can do is pretend I can taste the difference between brands of filter coffee." Mark chuckles loudly, flicking through the channels in hopes of finding something somewhat decent. Just as he settles on a Bond movie, his phone shrills and he grimaces upon seeing the caller ID, knowing that if he doesn't answer she'll get petty and refuse to get back in touch but if he does, his currently fantastic mood will immediately dampen. Biting his lip, he makes his choice, stepping out onto the balcony, huddling underneath the freestanding parasol as he answers the call.

"Mark." She speaks before he even has a chance to open his mouth and he sighs, waiting for the rest of her inevitable monologue. "When are you coming to pick up the rest of your things?" 

 

"Look, Corrie, I told you, I haven't got -" 

 

"Well get the money! I don't want your stuff here." Mark purses his lips, blinking away the tears threatening to form. "And neither does Jansen." 

 

"Have some fucking decency, don't mention his name to me." She sighs and there's a wooden scrape at the other end, presumably from her getting up to pace. "If it's that fucking annoying to you, just fucking throw it out. I don't care." 

 

"Mark, please, be civil, I - I still care for you, you know." Mark doesn't bother suppressing the humourless laugh that escapes his mouth, turning his head to see Ryan on the other side of the glass with a curious look in his eyes. Mouthing an apology, Mark returns to his call. 

"Look, I... I know you you're not completely back on your feet so I - I booked you a flexible ticket. I'm sure neither of us want to deal with each other longer than necessary..." 

 

"I don't need your charity, Corrie!" Mark hisses, clenching his fist.

 

"Mark, relax, please. The divorce will go through soon and then we can both get out of each other's lives forever." 

 

"I miss you." Mark whispers, hanging his head.

 

"I know. I'll email the ticket to you. Goodbye, Mark." She hangs up, leaving Mark with plenty of things to say and no one to say them to. Sighing deeply, he plasters on a smile and steps back inside, hands held up in an apologetic gesture. Ryan hands him a mug which he drinks from gratefully, enjoying the warmth spreading in his chest.

 

"You okay?"

 

"Yeah," Mark mutters, clearing his throat. "Fine. Just... Ex-wife. Sorry, I know that was rude as hell but she -" Ryan waves his apology off with a smile, gesturing towards the sofa. 

 

"So, you were married?" 

 

"Yeah." 

 

"How long?" Ryan asks gently, taking Mark's hand. Somehow, this time, it doesn't comfort him. 

 

"Fifteen years. It's fine, honestly, don't worry about it." Ryan nods and smiles, gesturing to the TV. "Still up for a movie?" Mark begins to nod when he catches sight of the clock on the wall. 

"Crap. I'd love to, really, but I have to be at work in half an hour." His date nods sharply, standing up to grab the keys to his car. 

 

"I'll give you a lift there." 

 

"Thank you, Ry, but I don't think my boss would appreciate me showing up dressed like this."

 

“Well, I’ll drop you off home. It’s still lashing.” Mark smiles and follows his date to the hanger where their jackets are.

 

“Hey, look, Ry… I’m sorry we didn’t spend that much time together.”

 

“Nothing to apologise for, Mark, I had fun.” Ryan grins warmly and Mark feels some of his tension melt away. “Although…”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I wouldn’t be entirely against having dinner with you later this week…”

 

“I feel so appreciated. ‘Wouldn’t be entirely against’, you smart-arsed fuck.”

 

“Was that ‘I’d like that, Ryan, thank you for the kind offer, you drop-dead handsome hunk’ I just heard?” Mark sticks his tongue out at the blond who laughs, opening the front door to let Mark out. “There’s a fantastic place I know, though it’s quite a way away. If you’re up for it, I’m buying.”

 

“Sure, I’ll go anywhere if I’m not the one paying.” Mark deadpans and steps into the lift, a smirk on his lips. “Drop dead handsome hunk.” He mocks under his breath but Ryan hears anyway, jabbing Mark in the side and causing him to double over with a grunt. “Ugh, prick.”

 

“I didn’t think you were the ticklish kind.” A devilish grin contorts Ryan’s features and Mark backs away instinctively, holding his hands up as defense.

 

“Don’t even think about it - ah! Stop!” Mark chortles, doing his best to escape Ryan’s grasp but he’s powerless, the laughter rendering him weaker than normal. “Stop, oh my God, stop! Ryan!” He squeals and immediately flushes red with embarrassment.

 

“I need to hear that sound more often.” Ryan murmurs, letting go of Mark who glares without conviction.

 

“Do that again and I -  _ Ryaaaaaan!  _ ”

 

“Oops!” The blond grins and leans against the metal wall of the lift, watching Mark catch his breath. “Oh, I forgot -- There’s CCTV in this lift.”

 

“Ryan!”

“I love it when you say my name like that,” A provocative smirk plays at Ryan’s mouth and Mark looks away, licking his lips and taking a breath to stop himself thinking too much about the implications of that statement.  _ Damn  _ this bastard.

 

***

 

The midnight blue Bentley purrs softly as Ryan turns the corner to Simon’s flat and puts it in neutral as Mark bites his lip.

 

“Thanks for today, Ryan.” His date smiles widely. “I do want to see you again. Soon.”

 

“You will,” Ryan murmurs, turning in his seat slightly as Mark unbuckles his seatbelt. They gaze at each other in silence until Ryan leans over to press a chaste kiss to Mark’s cheek. His stubble grazes Mark’s and the brunet shivers slightly, smiling once Ryan pulls away. “Have a good day at work.”

 

“Thanks. See you.” He says and steps out of the vehicle, shutting the door gently and heading up to the steps. He hears the car rumble away and only when it rounds the corner again does he exhale heavily, hopping the stairs two at a time. He unlocks the door, seeing the TV playing some reality show on mute but seeing no other signs of life in the flat. “Sicks?” No response. He sighs, slipping his shoes off and hanging his jacket up as he heads towards the kitchen. “Si?” He notices Simon’s feet on the armrest and he smiles. “My absence bored you enough to watch that shite?” When he doesn’t get a response to that, he figures Simon fell asleep so he walks over, intending to wake him by yanking his feet but he stops dead in his tracks when he reaches the sofa. Simon is lying flat, eyes glassy and staring blankly at the ceiling. One of his arms is splayed out on his chest and the other is extended stiffly over the edge, black belt wrapped tightly around his bicep, syringe precariously sticking out of his vein. Mark’s heart drops to the floor, immediately replaced by blinding fury. “You absolute fucking  _ joke _ . You’re pathetic. That’s all you - I can’t  _ believe  _ you’d - agh!” Mark rants, pacing back and forth in front of Simon whose eyes are lazily following his movements. "I mean, what the hell is wrong with you?! Here I was, thinking you actually changed. My own damn fault." Mark stops, sighs and glares at Simon. "Are you even listening?!"

 

"Unfortunately," he slurs and takes in a shallow breath, half-lidded eyes sliding shut.

 

"Oh no you fucking don't!" Mark yells, storming up to Simon and forcefully. grabbing the syringe, throwing it behind him. He ignores Simon's feeble cry of pain and drags him up, knuckles white with the force of his grip. "Get the fuck up."

 

"You're hurtin' me, Rents." Simon protests, head lolling forward, chin hitting his chest with a muted thump.

 

"Good!" Mark hisses and drags Simon to his feet, shoving him in the general direction of the hallway. The blond stumbles and hits the wall, grunting in pain. "I can't believe you fucking did this. You do realise they'll never give you custody of a child if they find out you're on the same shit as her mother?! You're pathetic."

 

"That's what it's about, you fucking cunt." Simon snarls, gripping the wall as if it's the only thing keeping him upright. Mark realises it probably is but he can't bring himself to give a damn if Simon falls. He glowers at him, arms crossed.

 

"Well, in that case, fantastic coping mechanism you've got there. How much longer do you think you can go on like this?"

 

"Fuck off." Mark feels his anger flare at the complete nonchalance of Simon's behaviour. He charges up and shoves Simon against the wall, a sick feeling twisting his gut when he hears his friend's skull hit the drywall but he ignores it, aiming a punch at Simon's jaw. The blond doesn't even attempt to protect his face. He just stares at Mark with bloodshot eyes.

 

"You absolute piece of shit!" Mark growls, fist connecting with Simon's reddened face once more. "You might want to throw your life away but trust me when I tell you, I refuse to stand around and watch. Now," Mark steps closer, staring right into Simon's eyes, "I will let you go. And when I do, you will tell me every. single. one of your stashes. Understood?" Simon grunts and nods, wobbling on his feet when Mark lets go.

 

***

 

He watches his friend storm around the flat, arms overflowing with plastic bags full of white, brown and gray powders, pills, syringes, needles, razors and worn out belts. He dumps them all on the coffee table, doing another sweep of the flat before throwing them all into a plastic bag.

 

"Bathroom. Can you walk or do you need me to drag your sorry arse there?"

 

"Don't do this. You’re being a dick."

 

"Did I ask you to comment?! Get the fuck up." Simon bites his lip and gets to his feet shakily, shuffling behind Mark to the bathroom. His heart is pounding in his ears and his stomach is in knots. He walks into the bathroom just as Mark is emptying the first baggie of heroin into the toilet. With an anguished yell, Simon throws himself to his knees and holds his hands up, desperate to save as much as possible. Mark slaps his hands away and yanks him back by the collar of his shirt, albeit with less hatred than earlier. "Do that again and I swear to God I will break your fingers." Groaning in agony, Simon leans against the bathtub and watches, horrified, as Mark disposes of every single gram of drugs. He can already feel the itch of withdrawal picking at his brain just from thinking about it. He leans his head back and covers his face with his hands, dry sobs escaping his mouth. For a while, the only sounds in the room are Simon's ragged breaths and the rustling of plastic. Eventually, the toilet flushes and Simon hears Mark sit against the opposite wall. “Si-”

 

“Go fuck yourself, don't talk to me.” Simon chokes out, anger building in his chest.

“Simon, please, I -” Mark's voice has lost the harsh edge and Simon can hear the pity that took its place. He drops his hands from his face and glares at Mark, daring him to continue. The brunet sighs and rubs his eyes with the pads of his fingers. “This is for your own good. I'm here to help you, can't you see that?”

 

“You've made things ten times fucking worse, you fucking cunt!” Simon yells, voice hoarse and cracking, making him sound hysterical. “Your fucked up messiah complex makes you think you can do whatever you fucking like under the guise that you're saving the world but newsflash, you fucking aren’t! You saved yourself from drug addiction and your ego has blown up. I'm just a pathetic good for nothing junkie. I've been one my whole life, the only thing I'm good at is being a drain on society so how about you fuck off and let me have this one godforsaken thing in my fucked up life?!” Simon's voice rises to a roar by the end of his rant and he stands to his feet shakily, leaning against the sink as he gulps down lungfuls of air totally devoid of oxygen, the edges of his vision darkening. Mark stands and extends a hand slightly as if to catch Simon but he refuses to give him the satisfaction, gripping the washbasin with such force that his knuckles match the colour of the ceramic.

 

“You're not useless-”

 

“I fucking am! All I can do well is run scams and do drugs, do you really believe that I'd actually be a good parental figure for a fucking innocent child that has done nothing wrong?! Some boring fuckers will adopt her and give her a perfectly normal suburban life, she doesn't know me and she never has to. Being taken from her junkie mother to be put with her junkie father is fucking pointless.” He can feel a tear slide down his cheek but he barely notices it, lungs screaming for air but his windpipe refusing to open. Sudden, strong arms grab his shoulders and he notices mark's face inches from his own.

 

“You want to be a failure for your entire life?” Simon shakes his head and opens his mouth to speak but Mark cuts him off. “You don't have to be. Go to rehab. See a therapist. Go to parenting classes and accept custody. Give her the life you wanted to have. She deserves it and so do you.”

 

“I can't - I can't - alone - I,” Simon stammers, choking on his words. Mark shushes him gently, shaking his head.

 

“You won't be alone. Do it for her, if you won't do it for yourself.” Mark lifts Simon's chin up and stares into his eyes intently, that look saying more than words could. Simon latches onto the gaze, committing it to memory and vowing to do everything in his power to never drive Mark to give him that look again. It's physical, wrenching his heart from his chest and it hurts so much that he doubles over, dry heaving and gasping for breath. He feels Mark's hands rubbing a soothing circle on his back and slowly, he regains control of his body. He's vaguely aware of Mark leading him to his bedroom, ensuring he's sitting securely enough to stay upright. He hears him calling work, explains that he'll work on his day off to make up for it but he can't make it in today due to a family emergency but it sounds like it's in underwater. Exhaling shakily, he falls backwards onto the mound of pillows behind him and stares at the water-stained ceiling, entire body feeling numb. He doesn’t know if it’s the tail end of his high, the psychological stress or the unnaturally low level of oxygen in his blood but he can’t bring himself to care, eyes fluttering shut when he feels the mattress dip with Mark’s weight. His presence is comforting and it doesn’t take long for Simon to be drifting in and out of consciousness, a restless slumber overtaking him.  


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Megan and I have seen both films way too many times, but we're still getting through the books. Feel free to correct any plot mistakes (like Mark's wife's name - has she got one, canonically?) and I hope there aren't so many that this isn't fun to read. With that said, enjoy!

Simon wakes suddenly, eyes snapping open. The room is blanketed in darkness, a tiny sliver of light streaming in through the gap between the door and its frame. He groans slightly, head pounding. There’s a faint tapping coming from somewhere in the flat and he sits up groggily, blinking away the sleep. His mouth feels like cotton and he licks his lips, grimacing. There's a glass of what looks like orange juice on the bedside table so he picks it up, sniffing the contents then recoiling in disgust. The thought of seeing Mark now sends heat rushing to his face and he eyes the glass contemplatively, ultimately deciding against drinking the questionable liquid. He can just ignore Mark, he rationalises and slips out of bed, wincing at the feeling of his feet touching the cold wooden floor. The sickness is setting in. Soon, the headache will be the least of his problems. The door creaks and he flinches but the tapping doesn't falter so with an exhale, he shuffles to the kitchen slowly, using the wall as a stabiliser. Rounding the corner, Simon sees Mark on the sofa, hunched over his laptop on the coffee table. He doesn't turn when Simon enters so the blond ambles to the kitchen, filling a glass with water. He clutches it tightly, downing it in one go and exhaling in relief. Still, he’s not entirely satisfied. Swallowing his pride, he clears his throat. 

“Please tell me you haven’t thrown out my smokes as well.” The brunet shakes his head, pointing at the jacket hanger in the hallway. “Fuckin’ a.”

“Y’know,” Mark murmurs, voice hoarse from lack of use, “those are as bad for you as the blow.”

“Some might argue they’re worse.” Simon shoots back, rifling through the pockets. He hears Mark huff, taps trailing off. “Anyway, we’ve all got our vices, don’t we?”

“S'ppose so. Presumably mine is being a massive, annoying cunt?”

“Self awareness, I like it.” Simon mutters, cigarette hanging from his lips as he heads towards the window. A heavy silence falls between them, broken only by the metallic click of the lighter. After taking a few deep drags, Simon’s head feels clearer so he exhales the smoke into the night and turns to his friend. He’s gone back to typing, focused on the screen which gives the blond the perfect opportunity to observe. Mark’s sitting cross-legged, having changed into sweatpants and a hoodie and is worrying his lip, eyebrows furrowed. Perched on his nose is a pair of black-rimmed square glasses and Simon arches an eyebrow. “Going for the hipster vibe?”

“Yeah, no,” Mark mumbles, using his index finger to push them up higher, “I’m just blind as fuck.”

“Since bloody when?” Simon splutters, indignant and embarrassed that he didn’t know such an basic fact about his best friend.  

“Birth.”

“What the hell… How come I’ve never seen you in glasses?” Mark looks up and smiles slightly.

“Didn’t want to wear them as a child and then I invested in contacts.”

“So why’re you wearing glasses now?” Mark shrugs, looking down at his laptop once more. 

“Ran out of contacts. What, am I that ugly in them?” 

“No, actually, not at all. Er, I mean -” Simon feels his cheeks burn and he turns away as Mark chortles. “Sh’ddup.”

“Alright, Si.” The brunet clears his throat and shuts his laptop with a click, leaning back on the sofa and closing his eyes, folding his glasses and setting them beside him. “You should sleep.”

“Can’t. I’m jonesing.” Simon admits quietly, throwing the stub out the window with a shaky hand, biting his lip. Mark’s eyes snap open and he’s standing before Simon has time to shut the window. “What?” He snaps.

“How bad is it?” Mark asks, voice level. The blond eyes him critically then turns away, hoping Mark can glean from that. “Work with me here, Sicks, I can help you but I need to know.” 

“Pretty fuckin’ bad, Rent Boy, and it’s not gonna get better anytime soon.” Mark sighs and massages his temples, guilt constricting his heart. “Don't need your pity, Rents.” 

“No, you're right. Sorry. I'm just - I'm sorry.” 

‘’Good, ‘cause it’s your fault I’m feeling like absolute shite.” Simon hisses, raising a trembling hand into Mark’s field of vision. 

“Calm down, Simon,” Mark says evenly, pointedly holding his friend’s gaze. 

“Fuck off, I am calm.” He grunts, immediately seeing the irony.

“I understand what you’re going through, I’ve been through withdrawal many times. Don’t you remember? You spoon-fed me melted vanilla ice cream when I was too sick to do it myself.” A tiny smile plays at the blond’s chapped lips but he presses them into a thin line, eyes darkening once again. 

“Fuck off. You don’t understand.”

“Fine! You’re right!” Mark exclaims, throwing his hands in the air in exasperation. Simon’s about to agree but Mark doesn’t let him speak. “I should’ve just let you slowly kill yourself with every drug in the world, let you be a pathetic miserable piece of shit while leaving an innocent infant in the system for God knows how long because both of her parents are fucking junkies who don't care enough about their child to even try kicking the habit. You're totally fucking right, Simon, I'm sorry for trying to save your fucking life!”

“Did I  _ ever _ ask for your help?!” Simon yells back and Mark laughs in disbelief.

“Everything you  _ do  _ is a cry for help, Simon! You think I can’t hear you waking up every night because of the nightmares? I hear your shouts, you know. When’s the last time you went on a date, slept with someone, even hugged someone, completely sober, for the feelings involved and not ‘cause you’re Simon David fuckin’ Williamson, you’re a player, you have to, it’s expected of you? When’s the last time you had a steady, healthy relationship? When’s the last time you woke up and smiled because you’re alive?” Mark finishes his tirade with a strong exhale and a heavy silence settles between them. The brunet never takes his eyes off his friend’s face so Simon drops his gaze, chewing on his lip. He opens his mouth to speak but no words come out. He swallows thickly, eyes beginning to sting. He blinks the tears away before they have time to fall. “All I want to do is help.”

“I know.” He finally chokes out, voice cracking. “It’s hard, Mark.”

“It won’t be like this forever. Remember what’s at stake here, Si. It’s not just you who’s going to suffer if you give up now.” Mark says gently, lifting Simon's chin with his fingertips. Their eyes meet, Mark's open and earnest, Simon's red-rimmed and tired. Mark can feel the heat emanating from his friend's body and he involuntarily glances at his parted lips. They're pale and chapped with a bead of blood where skin was ripped off, soft breaths escaping through the gap. The blond's tongue darts out, moistening them and Mark feels himself sway forward minutely, unable to tear his gaze away, heart pounding, before he jumps back as though stung. He blinks, then rubs the back of his neck. “I- I’d better, uh, I’d better go.” He mumbles, picking at a hangnail on his thumb with his index finger. When Simon doesn’t reply, he nods curtly as though to reassure himself then turns on his heel and strides to his room. Simon lets himself exhale only when the door shuts and he’s left in deafening silence. He brings his fingers up to his lips and gazes at the blood remaining on his fingertips absently, thoughts running through his head at a hundred miles per hour. With shaky legs, he stumbles to the bathroom and leans over the sink, gripping the ceramic. The man staring back at him in the mirror is unrecognisable. He’s got dark circles under his bloodshot eyes, five o’clock shadow on his ashy skin and deep ridges in his forehead. He contorts his face into an ugly grimace, feeling nothing but contempt for himself. With an aggravated grunt, he sends his clenched fist flying into the glass, watching it shatter and fall to the ground with a deafening crash. Simon’s lips curl into a sardonic smile and he watches as crimson drops splatter the pristine white tiles with morbid fascination, barely noticing the throbbing in his hand. He feels tranquil, thoughts slowing to a halt. All he can think of is the immense calm that has settled in his chest, replacing the fury, frustration and fear. He smiles again but it quickly falls when he can hear Mark’s heels hitting the wooden floor as he jogs over. “Simon? You in there?” Simon deliberately holds his breath, hoping his friend will decide to look for him elsewhere. He glances up at the door and feels his heart drop to his feet. It’s not locked. By the time he gets to the door, Mark’s already barging in, freezing in mid stride when he sees the scene in front of him. “Fucking Christ! The fuck did you do?” Simon makes no effort to respond so Mark steps over the smashed glass tentatively, scrutinising the room. He notices the blood and frowns, glancing up at his friend. Simon tries to hide his injury but he hisses in pain when the skin stretches. Mark sighs and wordlessly reaches up to the shelves beside the sink, pulling out the dusty first aid kit and popping it open, gesturing towards the edge of the bathtub. Simon sits slowly, keeping his eyes pointedly fixed on the ceiling. All he can think of is what happened in the living room and the conclusions Mark might reach upon thinking about the violence fit Simon undoubtedly had mere minutes after their ‘moment’. There is no doubt in his mind that, had he lowered his head, their lips would’ve met. Shaking his head slightly, he clears his throat and drops his gaze to his legs, avoiding Mark who is kneeling in front of him, reaching for his bloodied hand. 

“Ow, fuck.” He hisses through gritted teeth when an alcohol-soaked cotton ball is swiped over the cuts. 

“Irritability is common in withdrawal. Mirror can be replaced.” Mark mutters, discarding the cotton ball once he is satisfied that the wounds have been cleaned. 

“I know what withdrawal feels like, you twat,” Simon pauses as his friend swipes at his hand roughly, “and do you really think I give a rat’s arse about the fuckin’ mirror?”

“I was trying to put you at ease.” Mark says, voice dripping with annoyance. “Let you know that it’s not a big deal.”

“Well, your bedside manner is fucking shite.” Simon grunts, watching his friend wrap a roll of white gauze around his knuckles. Blood immediately seeps through the first few layers so Mark silently continues, pausing briefly to rip off a strip of medical tape and sticking it to his pinky finger as he finishes the bandage with a plain knot which he then secures with the tape. Simon knows he should thank Mark but he can barely bring himself to look at the man. He knows Mark knows the anger is a cover for his embarrassment. He’s also aware that Mark is judging him. After all, he’s Simon fuckin’ Williamson, boisterous, confident, fearless, only the blond can’t see any of those features in himself anymore. He’s just a mess. He wonders if he ever was anything but that. 

“C’mon, bed.”

“Get off me,” Simon growls, shaking Mark’s hand off his shoulder. Mark sighs shakily and crosses his arms. “I can take care of myself.”

Mark simply hums in response, quietly following his friend to his bedroom. Simon doesn’t bother turning the light on, throwing himself onto the bed and turning his back to his mate. “Stay here, I’ll bring you some water.” He’s only gone for a few minutes but a sudden paranoia sets in and Simon thinks Mark’s just left him. He reckons he deserves it for being a prick but Mark returns with a tall glass of water, which he places on the bedside table beside Simon. The dull thud of the glass sounds like a gunshot to him and he winces, seeing Mark do so as well, an apologetic glance thrown his way. He wants to tell Mark to just let him wallow in his own self pity but he doesn’t trust his voice. “Sleep. Seriously, you know it’s the best way to get through this.” Simon exhales and lets his eyelids slide shut, even though he knows he will wake up again soon. Insomnia is one of the more unpleasant symptoms of withdrawal, but he’s tired. As he feels his mind become suspended between sleep and lucidity, he hears Mark speak. “I really do care for you, Si. I wish you knew that.” The door clicks shut gently and Simon lets himself drift off into restless slumber. 

 

***

 

A few days later, as Mark lounges on the sofa, book in his hand and Simon paces the kitchen, mug of tea in his hand, Simon’s phone begins to shrill loudly from the coffee table. Mark begrudgingly returns to the real world, setting the book face down on his chest as he reaches over for the device. Simon sips at the mug in agitation, relishing more in the comfort and familiarity of the movements than the taste. Mark has been doing the shopping and his tea choices are frankly disgraceful. Mark has noticed the rapid build up of half empty tea mugs scattered around the flat, as well as all the ashtrays filling up at an alarming rate. He supposes one habit at a time, although he wishes Simon would stop smoking in the flat. He glances at the screen and arches an eyebrow at the caller ID. 

“Well? Who is it?” Simon snaps and Mark eyes his friend before finally speaking. 

“'Social worker cunt'. Here, catch.” Simon extends his arms and fumbles with the device when it slips between his palms, glaring at Mark as he unlocks it. 

“Hello? Mhm, speaking. Hello, Donna,” He speaks with a saccharine grin plastered onto his face. As soon as he catches Mark watching him, he drops the grin and rolls his eyes. Mark smiles and picks his book up, pretending to read. “Oh! So soon? I haven’t - oh. Alright, so.” He sounds genuinely surprised and his features become smoother. “Aye, three o’clock tomorrow is fine. Err…” He listens briefly before clearing his throat. “That’s in Glasgow, yeah? No, no, I can get there. Alright, cheers.” He hangs up, anger immediately setting back into his face. “For  _ fuck’s  _ sake!” He yells to no one in particular, throwing the phone back in Mark’s general direction. He manages to catch it before it collides with his face and he sits up, worried. 

“Alright, Si?”

“No, it’s not fucking alright, Rent Boy-”

“I hate that fuckin’ nickname.” Mark interjects and Simon arches an eyebrow.

“Is that not what you are?” Mark scoffs, flipping his friend off. “Anyway, focus, she wants a decision by tomorrow.”

“I thought you’d already decided.” Mark murmurs, leaning back into the sofa. 

“That’s because you’re a fuckin’ pillock.”

“Oh,  _ fuck _ you.” Mark is about to shoot an insult back when he sees Simon chewing the inside of his cheek. He smiles ruefully. “You’re shitting yourself, aren’t you?”

“Your powers of deduction are astounding. Can you stop being a total cocksucker for one minute or is that too much to ask?”

“You’re the one insulting me!” Simon rolls his eyes dramatically then flops onto the sofa next to Mark, or more accurately, onto his legs. “Ow, you fuck!” Simon brings his hand to his lips and begins chewing at his nail absentmindedly, making no effort to move. Mark sighs, pulling his legs from underneath his friend, setting his book aside. 

“I’m gonna give up custody.” Simon speaks suddenly, eyes distant. The brunet can’t stop himself from frowning in confusion.

“Sorry, what?”

“You heard me, don’t make me say it again,” his flatmate pleads and Mark exhales evenly, mulling over what he’s just heard. He isn’t sure what approach to take, so he stays silent, hoping Si will continue. When he doesn’t, simply dropping his head into his hands, Mark makes his mind up. He stands, pacing to the windows where he grabs the cigarette packet and lighter resting on the windowsill. Taking out two cigarettes, he lights them then hands one to Simon who takes it cautiously, looking up at Mark. “What’re you -?”

“Do you need me to knock some sense into you? You’re going through hell right now -”

“-thanks, haven’t noticed-”

“-and you’re gonna do it all for nothing?!” Mark yells, taking a deep drag then grimacing. He briefly wonders how he’s never noticed Simon smoking menthols, but he pushes the thought aside, exhaling the acrid smoke. 

“How about for my own health and wellbeing?” Simon mumbles, knowing as he says it that it’s all crap. 

“You’re worried you’ll be a shite parent, aren’t you?” Simon doesn’t respond so Mark sighs, sitting on the coffee table to face his friend. “You won’t be. I know you won’t. Y’know how? ‘Cause you wouldn’t be this agitated if you didn’t already love this kid.” Simon hums, bringing the cigarette to his lips. Mark presses his lips into a line, pats his friend’s knee and stands, heading towards his room. The silence means he’s thinking, Mark’s known him long enough that even a 20 year break hasn’t affected his ability to see right through Simon. He hopes he’ll make the right decision. 

 

***

  
  


Simon is awake unusually early, sitting at the side of his cold, empty bed, head in his hands. He’s got a pressing headache and he massages his temples wearily, wondering when his life got so messed up. Deep down, he knows what he should do, but is he ready to do the right thing? He shoots a glance at his arms, knowing his track marks are glaringly obvious and heaves a sigh. Anyone would be able to give his daughter a full, happy life, except him. 

The familiar scent of a fried breakfast reaches him and wipes the thoughts from his head, stomach cramping from hunger. Simon stands, shuffling into the kitchen to see Mark bent over the hob, a stupid grin on his face. Simon scowls, unable to deal with positivity this early in the morning. 

“Oh, you’re up.” Mark remarks. Simon simply hums, beelining for the coffee maker, reaching for the milk as he flips the switch and breathes in the scent of fresh coffee. “Sleep well?”

“Fuck off.”

“Ah.” Mark murmurs nonchalantly, humming a familiar-yet-unplaceable song as he plates the breakfast. 

“Rent Boy, cooking. What’s next? Pigs flyin’?” The blond utters snidely, lazily stirring his coffee. 

“Mm, they already do. Helicopter wakes me every morning. Reckon they’re looking for you. Probably scanning for heat sources.” Simon flips him off, taking a sip of the scalding beverage.

“They won’t find any long as you live here, your ice cold heart could make hell freeze over.”

“Oh, bite me.” Mark sneers, placing the plates on the kitchen table. “Just shut up and eat.” As much as Simon enjoys insulting his best friend, he does think the food looks delicious so he sits obediently, eyeing Mark across the table. “What?”

“Nothing.” A comfortable silence settles between them, the only sounds being the scraping of forks on the plates. Eventually, Mark takes a sip of his own, black, coffee and clears his throat. Simon grimaces. How can anyone drink black coffee? 

“So, uh,” The brunet starts, lacing his fingers. Oh, God. That’s his serious face. Simon drops his gaze, suddenly extremely interested in his coffee. The foam kind of looks like an owl, he notes. “Have you thought about it?” 

“Haven’t changed at all in two decades, have you? Barely awake and you’re already meddling in my life.” Simon grumbles but softens his frown when he sees Mark’s eyes. There’s that intensity again. ‘Fuck,’ Simon thinks, ‘not this again. He’s beaten me at my own puppy-dog eyes game. Unacceptable.’ He clears his throat. ”Yeah.”

“Well?” Mark prompts and Simon sighs shakily, biting his lip. “Oh, Si, no -”

“Look, it’s for the best, okay? You’re an optimist, fine, but I’m a realist. I know what I’m like. She’s gonna find a family soon enough, a family that, well, isn’t us. She’s definitely an adorable wee girl, I’m sure she’ll get adopted instantly.” The silence is heavy this time and Simon leans back in his seat, staring at the scratches on his mug. “Still gotta go to Glasgow, though. Donna wanted me to meet her first. In fact, she insisted on it.”

“Okay. Do you want me to come with you?” Simon snaps his eyes to Mark. Mark’s face is level yet open. The blond doesn’t trust himself to speak so he just nods minutely. “'Kay. I’m gonna get us a car.”     


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm awful at regular updates, I'm sorry! 
> 
> Also, sorry. 
> 
> You'll see why.

“I can’t believe this.” Simon grumbles, leaning his head against the window of their rental car. Mark ignores his displeasure so Simon sits up, throwing his arms up. “A fuckin’ Clio.”

“Oh, would’ya shut up? It was the only thing they had on such short notice.”

“Mark,” Simon speaks, in a tone Mark immediately recognises as the ‘I will now impart incredible wisdom upon you, you pitiful uneducated peasant’ tone, mastered during Simon’s youth. He did _not_ miss this. “A Clio says two things. One, I’m using my wife’s car to pick up her kids from their prissy middle-class preschool or two, I like taking it up the arse.”

“I wonder which one applies to you.” Mark murmurs, smirking as he taps out the drum beat to the song on the radio on the steering wheel. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Simon shoots back, reaching for the volume dial as the song changes. A smirk-laden male voice fills the car, backed by a smooth piano track. Mark frowns then grimaces once he recognises the song as Simon nods his head to the beat. 

“Seriously?” 

“Oi, watch it. Steely Dan are underrated legends and I swear to God, if you dare criticise -” 

“Okay, okay!” Mark concedes, raising his hands in surrender. Simon smirks in satisfaction and turns it up higher, mostly just to annoy Mark. The older man rolls his eyes but doesn't reply, figuring he might as well let Simon enjoy  _ something  _ about this trip. They pull up to a red light and Mark sighs, seeing the queue of cars in front of them. He can hear Simon quietly singing along and he cracks a grin, earning himself a glare. Suddenly, his phone shrills and he jumps, startled. Turning the dial down, he puts it to his ear while he attempts to one handedly change gears and release the handbrake. “Hello?” 

“Hey, it's Ryan! Can you talk?” Mark shoots a glance at Simon, who is tapping the rhythm out on his thigh, humming to himself. 

“Yeah. What’s up?”

“What’re you up to tonight?” Ryan asks and Mark swears he can hear the lip bite. He smiles and ignores Simon’s arched eyebrow. “‘Cause, I can get us a reservation at  _ La Salle Rouge _ .”

“Wow, swanky.”

“The swankiest.” Ryan affirms. Mark sighs and Ryan hums, speaking before Mark has a chance to respond. “Too swanky?”

“No, no, it’s just, well....” Mark shoots another glance at Simon who rolls his eyes and shakes his head in disbelief. His heart skips a beat, wondering if his friend can hear Ryan’s side of the conversation. He’s not ready to tell Simon, not yet. “I’d love to, but I’m in Glasgow tonight. Tomorrow?”

“Sure, tomorrow suits. What’re you doing in Glasgow?” Ryan asks, smile in his voice. Mark hesitates before answering. 

“Uh, roadtrip with Simon.” 

“Simon? Who’s Simon?”

“Is that a hint of jealousy I hear?” Mark grins despite himself and Ryan snorts, sounding no less jealous. “He’s just a friend. Flatmate.”

“Oh. Well. Have fun. I’ll text you later, have to get back to work.” The line abruptly goes dead and Mark stares at his phone in confusion, snapping out of his daze at the impatient honking behind him. 

_ Friend _ . That’s what they are, right? So why does hearing Mark say that make Simon’s chest tighten uncomfortably? He sighs and turns to his  _ friend _ , eyeing the phone on his lap suspiciously. 

"Fuckbuddy upset with you over something?"  


“The fuck? What’s up with you?”

“Nothing, just fuckin’ drive.” A silence falls before curiosity gets the best of the blond and he speaks again. “This the bird you went on a date with the other day?”

“Aye.” 

“What’s her name, then?” Mark tightens his grip on the steering wheel, clearing his throat.

“Err, it’s - It’s Ryanne.” 

“Ryanne?” Simon snorts, ignoring the glare thrown his way. “What, her parents wanted a boy but she showed up instead?”

“S’pose so. Why are you suddenly so interested?” Mark snaps, immediately regretting it. Simon scoffs, offended.

“Cause we’re mates? And you’re acting fucking weird whenever she’s mentioned so I’m interested. Hey, you know whether she’s into blond guys? I mean, her standards must be low as shit to go out with you, so I might have a chance, eh?”

“Fuck off.” Mark murmurs but the insult lacks its usual bite. Still, it has the intended effect and the rest of the drive passes in uncomfortable silence. 

 

***

 

Mark pulls up at a two storey Georgian red-brick terraced house and kills the engine, watching Simon chew on a fingernail in silence as he gazes at the building. The drive is cluttered with bikes, scooters and a few small toys surrounding an olive green SUV with a family sticker set on the rear windshield. A ginger cat is lazily sprawled out on the stone steps leading up to the door, soaking up the afternoon sun. Shooting a glance at his watch, Mark sighs. “We’re a bit early.” Simon hums, eyes wild. “You sure I can even be here with you?”

“Why the fuck wouldn’t you be allowed?” The blond snaps and Mark shrugs. 

“Dunno, I mean… I have no ties to the kid.”

“Yeah, about that…” Simon trails off, dropping his hands onto his lap, picking at a stray thread on his trousers. “I may have told them otherwise.”

“What do you mean?” Mark asks cautiously, somehow already knowing. Simon looks pleadingly at his friend, who sighs as he rubs his temples. “Do you ever stop lying to people?”

“I’ve lied to you about worse things. Look, I don’t - I can’t - Fuck, stop looking at me like that, don’t make me say it.”

“Say what?” Mark asks nonchalantly, feigning ignorance. 

“Fuck you. I can’t go in there alone, alright? Cunts wouldn’t have let you come with me if I hadn’t -”

“Did they believe you? ‘cause I am  _ not  _ holding hands with you to prove it.” 

“Oh, toss off.” Simon sneers, unbuckling his seatbelt and opening the door, striding out towards a black sedan that has just pulled up in front of them. Mark smiles to himself and steps out of the car, locking it as he follows his friend. He's already engaged in a terse discussion with Donna, arms folded across his chest as though he is shutting the world out. The woman’s mood visibly lifts when she sees Mark and she extends her hand for Mark to shake. 

“Good afternoon. Mark, I presume?” 

“Hi. Nice to meet you.” Mark smiles politely and Donna gestures towards the house. 

“Shall we?” She doesn't wait for a response, heading up the gravel drive. The brunet glances at his friend who is absent-mindedly picking at a hangnail on his thumb. Donna steps up to the doorbell and depresses the button, stepping back slightly as the door swings open to reveal a tall, slim woman with a tight black ponytail on the other side. She grins, revealing perfect pearly white teeth and steps aside, ushering them in. 

“Hi, guys! Lovely to see you again, Donna.” She speaks with a thick Cockney accent, yet somehow makes it sound soft and gentle. “I’m Jackie. My husband, Dave, is in the sitting room. Follow me,” Jackie leads them through the hall, passing a white staircase with black carpet which continues upstairs. She steps aside and ushers the group in through the arch, then follows, grin never faltering. Dave is sitting on the leather couch, a steaming mug of tea in front of him. He’s as plain as his name, wearing a cream knitted jumper over a navy button-down and dark jeans, hair lightly gelled to the side. He smiles warmly and stands, offering them his hand. Mark shakes it confidently, nodding as a way of greeting. Simon keeps the handshake short, knowing how badly his hands are trembling. “Please, take a seat. Can I get you anything? Tea, coffee, biscuits?” Simon opens his mouth to speak but no words come out. He glances pleadingly at Mark who nods and smiles at Jackie. 

“Just some water, please, if that’s alright.”

“Of course.” She nods and heads to the kitchen, leaving a silent room behind. Simon wonders if everyone else feels as cripplingly awkward as he does. She returns after an agonising five minutes, juggling four glasses of water while a young girl follows, carrying a plate piled high with biscuits. The sight of them makes Simon’s stomach flip. He wonders if he’ll even be able to keep water down. The girl sets the plate down, smiles curtly at the newcomers and slips out, footsteps fading as she heads upstairs. “That was our daughter, Isabel.” Jackie’s eyes mist over as she says her daughter’s name and Simon wonders if that’s what it looks like to have a child. “So, anyway, remind me, which one of you is Simon?”

“Er, that’d be me.” Simon chokes out, lifting his hand slightly. Jackie grins. 

“I figured. Eilidh’s got a striking resemblance. No doubt she’s yours.” Dave speaks up, smiling. Simon feels lightheaded. 

“She should be waking from her nap soon. In the meantime, shall we discuss business, get it out of the way?”

“Yes, let’s.” Donna clears her throat, crossing her legs. Her eyes are cold as she gazes upon everyone gathered in the room and Mark can understand her Caller ID in Simon’s phone. He’s not the nicest bloke around but even he reckons that social workers should be more approachable. “The best thing for the child would be to be placed with her biological father…” She stares pointedly at Mark. Simon withers under the icy glare but Mark stares back unflinchingly, one eyebrow arched slightly so she clears her throat and continues, “and his partner. However, should that not be possible, Jacqueline and David have told me they would be interested in adopting Eilidh.” She arches her eyebrow at Simon, who opens his mouth to respond but is interrupted by a wail from upstairs. 

“Mu-um!” A girl, presumably Isabel, yells above the crying. “I tried to calm her but I think she wants you!”

“I’m coming!” Jackie shouts back and smiles apologetically, rushing upstairs. Simon exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“It’s annoying at first but you get used to it,” Dave says gently, placing a hand on Simon’s shoulder, who simply nods, unable to explain that that's not the problem. Jackie’s footsteps approach and she enters, a tiny pink bundle in her arms. The blond stands, watching as the woman in front of him bounces the bundle of blankets up and down with practiced ease, soothing the cries until they transform into half hearted gurgles. Mark smiles reassuringly at Simon who approaches Jackie cautiously, hesitantly pushing back a fold of fluffy pink blanket to see tufts of jet black hair and the biggest grey eyes he’s ever seen. He delicately brings his finger to her tiny palm and watches as she curls her fingers around it, still sniffling. 

“Would you like to hold her while I make her some milk?” 

“I’m - I’m not sure I -” Simon stutters, turning to Mark who rolls his eyes playfully. 

“You’ve done this before, Si. Just relax, here,” he stands behind his friend, adjusting the position of his hands as Jackie places Eilidh in his arms. Simon stands still, looking down at the baby -  _ his  _ baby - as she gazes back at him, silently judging. “She’s definitely yours, Sicks. I have never seen a baby look so much like her dad. Really passed down the Italian genes, eh?” Mark chuckles in disbelief, smiling at the child. 

“Is that supposed to reassure me, you dick?” Simon hisses back, barely audible and his friend snorts, waggling his fingers at her. She gives him a look that Mark knows all too well and he laughs again, clapping Simon on the shoulder. 

“She’s feisty already. Can’t wait till she starts talkin’.”

“Oh, fu- go away, Mark.” Simon sneers then laughs at himself. “Christ, that didn’t sound anywhere near as threatening as I wanted it to.”

“Glad you can control your language already.” Jackie speaks behind them and they wheel around, the tips of Simon’s ears turning pink. “I can take her for this, she’s got a tendency to spit.”

“Stop, you’re just describing Simon now,” Mark grins cheekily, returning to his seat on the sofa, pretending not to notice the gesture he gets in return. 

 

***

 

“So, how long have you two been together?” Jackie asks Mark, taking a sip of her tea as they watch Simon at the other end of the room, cluelessly trying to entertain Eilidh with countless rattles and stuffed toys. Mark tries to keep his face level but evidently fails because Jackie eyes him thoughtfully and then hums to herself. “Well, could’ve fooled me.”

“Excuse me?” Mark chokes out, trying to clear his windpipe from the water he’d just inhaled. She just smiles knowingly and brings the mug to her lips.

“Donna told me about her mother’s drug habit. Terrible thing. Eilidh was malnourished but the mother even more so. Despite the drugs, she’d still made sure her child could eat even if it meant she couldn’t.” 

“Really?” Mark murmurs, still recovering from Jackie’s previous statement. He’s sure she knows something the two of them don’t but he can’t figure out what it is. 

“Have you ever… Sorry, not my place to ask.”

“No, it’s alright.” Mark shrugs, although he avoids eye contact. “Twenty years clean.”

“And Simon?” Mark hesitates and Jackie nods. “As long as he’s clean now.”

“He is.”

“This child deserves to be raised by her father. Dave and I fostered a girl that watched her mother die of an overdose while her father drank himself to unconsciousness, caring about nothing but the bottle. She’d seen too much, we couldn’t help her.” Jackie’s voice cracks and she clears her throat, covering her sadness with a smile. “But I can tell, Simon does care for his daughter, even if he hasn’t admitted it to himself yet.” Mark nods thoughtfully, bringing his eyes to meet Jackie’s. The moment is shattered by a shrill cry to which Jackie responds instantly, handing her mug to Dave as she rushes up to the wailing bundle. Simon stands rapidly, white as a sheet. Mark can see his hands are shaking. “Donna?” 

“Mm?” 

“I think it would be best to give Simon and Mark one more day to decide… I mean…” she nods her head in Simon’s direction. Donna, in a surprising show of human emotion, sighs and nods. 

“This is not a decision made lightly. Are you both fine with meeting tomorrow early afternoon?” 

“Of course,” Mark answers, smiling tightly. Simon stumbles his way through the pleasantries, exhaling properly only once Mark has exited onto the main road, softly humming whatever song is on the radio. “Guess we're staying the night.” 

“Mm.” Simon mumbles, lips set into a thin line. “Turn left here.” 

“Why?” Mark asks, flicking on the turn signal. 

“Nearest pub is to the left.” Mark inhales sharply. “Don't start. I need a drink. Just fuckin’ - light's green, alright? Just go. Or else, let me out, I’ll walk it.” Mark doesn’t respond and the rest of the drive passes in tense silence. 

 

***

 

The pub is comfortingly traditional, with dim lighting, unsteady barstools and multiple plasmas, each showing a different game, all muted. Simon storms inside, letting the door swing behind him as Mark extends a hand to stop it hitting him in the face. By the time he makes it to the bar, Simon’s already hailed down the miserable looking barmaid. 

“Old Fashioned, please, luv.” She nods once and turns around to prepare his drink as Mark slides onto the stool beside his friend. Simon nods at him once, then drops his gaze to the scratched oak bartop. The barmaid slides the cocktail to Simon who lifts it to her in gratitude and downs half in one go. She turns to Mark, flashing him a dazzling smile. 

“What’ll it be?” 

“Erm,” Mark hesitates then purses his lips, “tonic water, cheers.”

“Sure thing.” She grins again and drops below the bar, coming up with a glass bottle of tonic and a glass, expertly popping the bottle open with the edge of the bar while dropping ice cubes into the glass. She places the drink in front of Mark and smirks, eyes mischievous. 

“Thanks,” Mark glances at her nametag, “Annie.” She nods, reluctantly stepping away to serve another patron. Simon groans in disgust and Mark shoots him a look. 

“Well done.”

“Problem?” Mark asks, eyebrow arched as Simon rolls his eyes. 

“You used her name. She’ll think you’re interested.” 

“What if I am?” Simon groans again and knocks back the rest of his cocktail, slamming the glass down onto the counter. “Jealous she likes me and not you?”

“Thought you had your… thing… on the side.” Simon shrugs, picking out the orange twist and bringing it to his lips. Mark catches himself staring as his friend sucks the juices out of the fruit and he blinks, looking away. “What was her name? Som’thin’ fuckin’ absurd, Rosalyn? Rhinestone?”

Mark narrows his eyes at Simon. “Who the fuck names their child Rhinestone?”

“Judging by your reaction, hers do.” He smugly drops the orange into his glass and shoots a mock grin at Mark who simply rolls his eyes and watches as Simon gestures at Annie for another. He briefly wonders how many Simon will have but then realises dwelling on that will only make him even more miserable than he already is. “I saw that look. You gonna sit there nursing a tonic all night?”

“One of us has to be responsible, Simon.” Mark says snidely. The barmaid overhears, smirking. Simon mimes shooting himself in the head as soon as her back is turned. “You  _ are _ jealous.”

“Of what, exactly?” Simon barks, knocking back the cocktail as he glares at Mark. “Your looks? Hardly. Your utter lack of experience with women? Psh.” He deliberately says the last part louder, hoping to discourage Annie. Something about her seems off and he finds her irritating and air headed, which surprises him, since ordinarily that would make him vie for her attention. He swallows the rest of his cocktail, never once taking his glare off his best friend. Mark arches an eyebrow.

“Cheaper to just get some clear spirits, rate you’re going at this.” 

“You know what?” Simon says, forcing a saccharine smile, “You’re right. Annie, hon, mind getting me a handle of Smirnoff?” 

“You should slow down.” She murmurs, passing him the bottle. “Chaser?”

“Naw, you’re alright. Thanks.” He drops the smile at her comment and she looks at him in disdain. She’s about to turn her back when Mark smiles at her. 

“Sorry, could I get some gin? I get the feeling this is gonna be a long night.” 

“Piss off, alright? If you’re so miserable with me, go find a hotel.”

“You know that’s not what I meant, Si.” Mark says as Annie leans over the bar to pour the gin into Mark’s glass, treating them both to a full view of her cleavage. Mark arches an eyebrow and smirks, causing her to giggle as she walks away, spring in her step. 

“Dunno what you’re smirking about, you’d find better tits in a Leith back alley. Besides, Rhinestone wouldn’t approve, would she?”

“Her name’s Ryanne, you cock, and of course you’d know all about the back alleys of Leith.”

“‘Scuse me? What’s that meant to mean?”

“Only that you’ve knobbed all of Edinburgh.”

“Ooh, are _you_ jealous now?” Mark can only sneer as he sips his gin and tonic. Simon laughs easily, already feeling the tension melt away. 

“Hope we won’t have to do an impromptu musical number tonight.”

“It _is_ karaoke night, boys, and I’m sure Rhinestone won’t mind a song or two.” Annie interjects just before a patron waves her over. Simon sneers at her back. 

Mark chuckles. “You never were subtle with your jealousy.”

“Piss off! Karaoke sounds fun. We should do it.”

“Please be joking.” Simon shrugs, knocking back a shot. “Well in that case, no more alcohol for me.” 

“You’re no fun.” The blond says, sliding off the stool as he slaps some bills onto the bar and heads towards the pool table. The barmaid smiles at Mark as he picks up the money and hands it to her, an apologetic grimace on his face. She hands him the receipt and winks as she puts the bills into the register. Mark thanks her briefly, scanning the receipt as he walks away. Below the list of incredibly overpriced drinks is a phone number with a heart written in pink ballpoint pen. Mark huffs out a laugh and folds up the scrap of paper, fully intending to throw it out as soon as he’s out of the bar. She’s not unattractive and seems like fun for one night but the last thing on his mind is hooking up. 

*

Simon picks up a second pool cue and chucks it in Mark’s general direction. He catches it just before it hits a passing bartender and walks up to the table, watching as Simon breaks. 

“I hate playing pool with you.” He grumbles, not meaning it. Simon shrugs, watching the balls scatter around the table.

“Relax, you’re meant to play with the cue, not have it up your arse. Have you  _ ever  _ even had fun?”

“Sure,” Mark shrugs, leaning over the table to take a half hearted shot, “Swanney’s was fun.” Simon snorts and Mark follows, resting his chin on the cue. 

“Swanney was a huge prick. All his shit was always mostly powdered milk or some vaguely toxic shite he found under his sink.”

“Pure enough to keep us hooked.” The microphone on the makeshift stage whines and a girl drunk enough to need to hold onto the teleprompter to stay upright starts crooning an 80s love song, surprisingly in tune. "Please don't tell me you actually want to sing." 

"Of course I don't. Yet. Need to get smashed before I consider it. But I'll consider it." Simon grins devilishly and pots one of the striped balls. He sighs, which suddenly turns into breathy laughter. Mark watches him, eyebrow arched.

“No way you’re drunk yet.”

“Of course I’m not, don’t insult me.” Simon chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s just that something always goes wrong when any of us plays pool.”

“The fuck you on ab-”

“Franco nearly killed a punter for distracting him,” Mark’s jaw tenses when Simon mentions his name. Fuck. “- And then I nearly killed you.”

“Let’s hope that doesn’t happen tonight, eh? I’d like to see you absolutely butcher a song. Been a while since I had a good laugh.”

“‘Scuse me,” Simon says, indignant, “I do a good Freddie Mercury.”

“C’mon, the guy’s already dead, he doesn’t need you butchering his music.”

"See, remember 1690?" Simon says, triumphantly potting a ball as Mark sighs and sits up on the table to reach a particular ball. "If you hadn't lobbed me with the fucking piano -" 

"Which you can clearly play, you lying twat-" 

"- I could've been the one singing and we would've walked out of there with not only cards, but a ton of numbers too." 

Mark snorts. "I don't find cougars attractive. Every woman there looked like their leather handbags." 

"No wonder you're getting divorced, Rentboy, if that's how you talk about women." Simon snarks, waving a bartender over. "Bottle of Meantime Raspberry and some water for Groucho over here, cheers." The bartender leaves as Simon lines up to take a shot.

"Meantime? I see now why you always referred to yourself as Simone, you fruity cunt." Mark chortles, enjoying the grimace that passes over Simon's face. 

"Blow me, Mark." He hisses, grip tightening. 

"Nowhere near drunk enough for that, Si."

Simon, shock evident on his face, loses his focus and scratches the ball. Mark watches as the cue ball harmlessly rolls toward another, gently tapping it. "Oops. Looks like you’re off your game." 

"What the hell was that?" 

"Oh come on." Mark shrugs, silently calculating the trajectory of his shot. "We were young, alcohol was plentiful... No big deal." 

Simon stares at his friend, lips pursed. "Right." 

"Oh whisht, you big baby." Mark smiles innocently, nodding at the bartender as he sets down the beverages on the small table beside them. He hits a ball forcefully and watches as it shoots into a pocket. "Yes! The tables have turned, Sickboy, haven't they?" Simon, for lack of a better comeback, simply sneers at his friend as he knocks back half the beer in one go. He’s gonna need a lot more alcohol if he’s to survive this night with Rents.

 

***

 

Simon, swaying, latches onto Mark’s sleeve as they listen to a young lad finish his song to a round of raucous applause. Mark wonders exactly how drunk you’d have to be to have enjoyed that and he half-heartedly considers going to every house on the road and personally apologising for what’s coming next.

“I fuckin’ told you I’d do it,” He slurs, smug smirk on his face. 

“I’d hoped you’d forget by the time it was your turn.” Mark murmurs, attempting to stabilise Simon. The gin had worn off hours prior and he was seeing the pub as what it really was - a room full of drunk arseholes, botched singing and yelling without reason, complemented by the stench of stale beer and somehow, cigarette smoke.

“You - you’ll sssssee. They’ll all sseeee tha’ I can fuckin’ ace this, j-just you fuckin’” he hiccups slightly, “wait.” The lad steps off the stage and Simon straightens, stumbling towards the microphone. He doesn’t bother with an introduction, simply selecting his song and waiting for the teleprompter. As soon as the music begins, the noise of the pub fades away. The lights are shining directly onto him, all eyes eagerly watching his every move. He feels lighter than ever, remembering the days spent in his flat, iPod on full blast as he hopped around, singing at the top of his lungs. The crowd cheers and he smirks, searching for Mark’s face. He’s certain he’ll see contrition, because, God damn it, he’s  _ killing  _ it.

 

The brunet, hidden away in a corner, is anything but contrite as he struggles to contain his laughter to keep his phone steady. The thought of teasing Sicks with the recording is the only thing keeping him sane. Simon is stumbling around the stage, slurring the lyrics so much that they’re indecipherable all while being out several keys. He’s glad he knows no one in the room because he isn’t sure he’d be able to deal with the embarrassment. Simon drops to his knees, plucking at an imaginary Red Special as the solo plays around him and Mark hears himself groaning in agony. 

"Damn it, Begbie, why couldn't you have shot me?" Mark mumbles to himself, rubbing his temples. A woman next to him shoots him a look which he ignores, thanking every God under the sun when the song ends. He barely registers the deafening applause, wishing he was literally anywhere else but there. Simon grins at the crowd as he stumbles off the 'stage', making his way towards Mark. 

"Wasn't - wasn't that fuckin' brilliant?" He slurs, swaying and grabbing onto Mark's shoulder to steady himself, chuckling for no reason. "I killed it!" 

"Killed my will to live. Come on, Si, it's late, we still haven't found a hotel -" Simon blows a raspberry at Mark, flipping him off as he shuffles to the bar. Mark follows, panicked, frantically shaking his head at the bartender. 

"You're such a - such a killjoy, Rents." Simon whinges as Mark manhandles him through the throngs of drunk college students and out the door. "Ge'ddoff me." 

"Not until you're in the car. I don't want to bring you to the ER cause you smashed your face on concrete and broke your nose for the fiftieth time." 

"Always so uptight. Doesn' it get borin'?" Simon mumbles mostly to himself as he stumbles to the car. 

‘Doesn’t constantly bitching get boring?’ Mark muses to himself as he unlocks the car and opens the door to the passenger side. "Okay, come on, get in." 

Simon shakes his head, swallowing thickly. "Mark." 

"What, you going to be sick?" He's met with another vehement shake as Simon's bony fingers latch onto the front of his jacket. "Mark, I can't - I can't leave her there. She needs me." 

Mark's expression softens as he places a hand on Simon's shoulder. "What do  _ you  _ need?" 

"I need you." The blond whispers, eyes darting around Mark's face, searching for something that remains unspoken. The brunet bites his lip, gently peeling away his friend's hands as he silently twists him to help him into the vehicle. Simon's intense gaze never leaves his face, following him even as he walks around to the driver's seat. The drive home is silent, the atmosphere thick and heavy. Mark pointedly avoids looking at his friend who seems to have changed his focus from Mark to the road in front of them, watching the landscape whizz by with bleary eyes. 

 

***

 

The first thing Simon is aware of when he opens his sleep-laden eyes is the fact that he can’t move his legs. Blinking rapidly to clear the blurred vision, he takes a breath and feels a small puff of air agitate his arm hair. Turning his head, he sees his arm resting on someone’s bare chest. Someone’s very _male_ chest. Heart pounding, he lifts his gaze to see Mark, one arm above his head, the other hanging off the bed, dry lips slightly parted as he softly snores. 

“Shit,” He hisses, propping himself up slightly to investigate the cause of his sudden leg paralysis. A wave of nausea washes over him and he grimaces, peeling the duvet back to see his bare legs entwined with Mark’s, locked in place by his friend’s joggers. Cursing under his breath, he pulls his appendages free, scrambling off the bed. The sheet lifts off the mattress, tangling itself in Simon’s legs and causing him to lose his balance as he falls onto the carpet. “Ow, shit.” He groans, wincing at the pain radiating from his tailbone. He sits on the floor, disorientated, as his sluggish brain struggles to make sense of his situation. He hears his friend’s breathing speed up and he groans, rubbing his temples in a feeble attempt to ward off the inevitable headache. 

“Mm, fucking hell, Simon,” Mark pauses to yawn and Simon thanks whatever God is up there that his friend couldn’t see his body’s reaction to his morning voice. Another wave of nausea washes over him and he grimaces, throat burning. The brunet sits up and arches an eyebrow at Simon sitting miserably on the floor. “You and your lanky limbs.” He stretches and winces, hand automatically reaching for his lower back. Simon’s mouth fills with sour saliva and his eyes widen. Mark notices the panic in his eyes and gestures in the direction of a door behind Simon whilst rubbing his eyes, trying to wake up. As the younger man scrambles to get to the toilet in time, Mark sits on the edge of the bed and watches groggily as his friend’s back heaves. “I’m hurt.” Simon spits and purses his lips, lifting his head to shoot Mark an incredulous glance. 

“What?”

“This is the first time someone’s thrown up after realising they slept with me.” Simon’s heart falters, blood draining from his face. Renton barks out a laugh, shaking his head as he stands, stretching his limbs. Simon coughs and sits back, rubbing his temples. 

“What the fuck even happened?” He groans, swallowing thickly to try and get rid of the taste of bile. 

“You got smashed, ‘sang’ karaoke in the middle of the night and barely made it up to this room without falling over. This was the only hotel in the area with a room available. Some gig or something. Anyway, I didn’t trust the floor and the bed seemed big enough so…” Mark shrugs, rolling his shoulder with a wince. “Do your limbs just turn into fuckin’ snakes when you sleep?” Simon snorts, wearily pulling himself up to a semi-vertical position while clutching the sink. 

“Karaoke, seriously? Why didn’t you stop me?!” Simon groans, embarrassment flooding his thoughts. Christ.

“You’re quite hard to dissuade when drunk.” Mark shrugs.

“How are you so chipper?”

“I had one gin and tonic, Si. And, hell, your misery makes me thrive.” The brunet teases, leaning down to his duffel bag to root through his clothes. He wonders if he should clarify that nothing happened, that their bed sharing was purely platonic but even the slightest chance that he’s the only one thinking about the implications makes him stay silent. He just hopes Simon is too miserable and hungover to consider it. 

 

 

Wishful thinking regarding Simon will be the end of him one day.  



	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the time it took to write this damn thing.   
> Entirely irrelevant and off topic, we're right in the middle of Hurricane Ophelia. As Megan said, 'Instead of trying to drown herself, she's trying to drown us.' Ireland's in shambles. Trees have fallen. Electricity has gone out for most of the country. Leaves have been blown away. A lawn chair has tried to do a remake of that lawnmower vine. Send help, we're all gonna die. x
> 
> Anyway, I should probably mention that we don't have a beta. I edit each chapter before posting but errors may slip by. Please point these out so I can fix them. Enjoy!

"You look tense." 

They're sitting in the corner table of  _ La Salle Rouge _ , soft piano music playing in the background, accompanied by the clinking of silverware and hushed conversation. An off-white candle in a simple yet elegant glass-box candle holder flickers gently, casting a golden glow onto Ryan's concerned face. 

Mark plasters on a placatory smile. “I'm fine.” 

Ryan arches his eyebrow, taking a pointed sip from his glass of some expensive sounding red wine. Mark feels his smile slipping and he sighs slightly, running his finger up and down the stem of his glass. “Sorry, I don't mean to ruin our evening.” 

“You aren't. I'm just concerned.” Ryan murmurs, placing one hand on the table. Mark gives it a squeeze, chewing on the inside of his lip. “Go on, talk to me. What's on your mind?” 

“It's just - well, I probably shouldn't say, but-” Mark pauses to knock back half of his wine, “-that's what alcohol was made for, eh?” Ryan huffs out a laugh and Mark sighs. “Y’know my trip to Glasgow? That was ‘cause we went to see Simon’s daughter. He didn't even know she existed until last week.” 

“Wow, that is stressful. How old is she?” Mark senses a sudden hostility beneath the caring exterior but he brushes it off, blaming it on paranoia. 

“3 months. Her mum gave up custody so she's in care but they want Si to take her. I understand that, but they don’t know him. I do and yet I pressured him to accept custody.” 

“So, he accepted and you think you made a mistake… or he didn’t and you feel guilty that you’re relieved.” Ryan murmurs, a soft smile on his lips. “I’m right, right?”

“Fuck, yes. He accepted and now I wish he hadn’t because he was right all along.”

“Irresponsible?” 

“We both are. Look, Ry… There’s something you should know… in case things get serious.”

“Wait, do you want serious?” Ryan asks, biting his lip. Mark nods, then sighs. “Okay, I’m listening.”

“I’m an addict.” 

Ryan keeps his face level but his eyes twitch slightly and Mark cringes. “Heroin, mostly, but really, anything I could get my hands on. I’ve been clean for the last twenty years… mostly.”

“That’s a long time. Well done.” The brunet is surprised to hear no sarcasm or malice in the statement. “We all have our addictions.”

“Yeah, I s’pose so. Problem is, Simon’s got many. Sleeping around is one of them. Who knows how many illegitimate children he’s got. He also gambles, drinks, takes all manner of drugs, gets into fights just for a rush… I’m such a fucking wanker, why’d I ever try to convince him?” Mark drops his head into his hands, sighing heavily. 

“Y’know what, hold on a mo’. I’m gonna cover the check and then we’re going to the pub.”

“What?”

“C’mon, you need to let all this out. Alcohol helps.”

“That it does. Alright, let’s go.”

 

***

 

Mark realises early on into the evening that Ryan’s ultimate goal is clearly to get him drunk. He finds he doesn’t care. Ryan is a good listener and Mark needs to spill his sorrows to someone objective, someone uninvolved in the situation. He can hardly tell Simon his doubts, can he?

“I think you should.” Ryan tells him when he asks. Mark laughs humorlessly, shaking his head. Ryan smiles as though to say ‘at least I tried’. 

“God, I’m such a downer, aren’t I?” He knows he’s slurring but somehow, his companion doesn’t seem to mind. 

“I wouldn’t say so. I think you’re fascinating.” 

“Right. Y’think I haven’t noticed?” Mark snorts, referring to Ryan’s hand which has been slowly but surely making its way up his thigh. Ryan feigns indignance which dissolves into a slight smirk under the brunet’s warm gaze.  

“I really do want to know more about you, Mark.” 

“ _ Right _ .”

“Well,” Ryan murmurs, closing the gap between them with a featherlight, teasing kiss, “wouldn’t you say  _ this  _ is a pretty important part of who someone is?”

“If I kiss you, will you drop the caring, shy, chivalrous gentleman act?” Mark grins, cupping Ryan’s cheek with one hand while the other hangs loosely over his shoulder. 

“Guess you’ll have to try to find out, won’t you?” 

“With pleasure,” he purrs, granting Ryan a kiss which starts off slow and lazy, transforming into a fervent, passionate necking their teenage selves would be shamed by. Mark supposes he should feel embarrassed but having one of the most affluent, most important businessmen he’ll likely ever meet lose all control at his hands makes his ego swell, and with the alcohol sufficiently numbing his inhibitions, he wastes no time in surreptitiously snaking his hands beneath the button-down and up Ryan’s back, to which Ryan responds by shifting in the booth so that Mark can drape his legs over his lap, both men desperate to get as close to one another as possible. Far too soon for his liking, Ryan is pulling away, hair mussed and lips swollen. Mark hears himself making a noise of disappointment to which Ryan submits, peppering his jaw with kisses. “Oh.” Mark mumbles, arching his neck to give the blond better access. 

“Mm, not so disappointed now, hm?” 

“Less talking, more kissing.”

“I’d do  _ much  _ more, if we weren’t in public…” Their eyes meet for one, intense moment. A mutual decision is made, and soon, they’re in Ryan’s Bentley, struggling to keep their hands off each other. Ryan drums his fingers on the steering wheel as they wait for the boom barrier to the underground car park to open, with Mark deciding that if he has to stay in his own seat for any longer, he’ll go insane. He leans over, allowing his lips to ghost over the blond’s earlobe, biting down gently, which earns him a satisfying guttural groan. “Jesus, Mark…” the brunet smirks, making his way down to Ryan’s sharp jawline, barely ghosting over the stubble as he hums, silently urging his companion to simply park wherever and get a move on.

 

They reach Ryan’s front door and after much fumbling, the door flies open, the weight of two men leaning against it causing it to strike the wall with enough force to leave a dent. They stumble and briefly break apart to regain their balance, with Ryan using his foot to shut the door with a sharp slam. As soon as it shuts, Mark finds himself pushed against the wall, Ryan’s kisses becoming frantic, the need, the  _ lust  _ in them overwhelming. His hands roam freely, exploring every inch of Mark’s body, until he decides that the clothing is a barrier to be removed instantly. Before he even knows what’s happening, Mark’s shirt is open, the sudden chill making him shudder slightly. Seemingly understanding, Ryan moves closer, his body emanating enough heat that Mark briefly wonders if he’s feverish. His hands now freed, he snakes his arms up to Ryan’s head and twists the locks around his fingers, tugging gently but firmly, his needs and wants clear. Ryan pulls back and for a while, the only sounds in the room are those of their heavy breaths as they share intense eye contact. Mark, even with the alcohol and arousal pumping through his entire body, sees something in Ryan’s eyes that he’s never seen before. They look like those of a cat about to pounce on prey, like he’s a feral animal about to devour a long-awaited meal. They scare and turn him on at the same time.  

 

Ryan’s bedroom, unsurprisingly, is just as immaculate as the rest of the flat and Mark smiles to himself, thoroughly enjoying the thought that, by the end of the night, it’ll be anything but. He’s about to remark on this when he’s unceremoniously pushed onto the bed, bouncing as he hits the springs. He yelps in surprise, then again, when Ryan clambers over him, straddling his thighs as he nips at Mark’s collarbone, hard enough to cause pain, then, as though remorseful, placing a light, apologetic kiss on each bite while his hands nimbly work Mark’s arms out of the constraints of the shirt, which is thrown out of sight. Mark decides it’s unfair and, as Ryan attempts to move lower, pulls him up, front of his shirt bunched up in Mark’s hand. He connects their lips once more as he fumbles with the buttons, wanting, no,  _ needing _ more skin contact. Ryan shrugs off the shirt and resumes his trail of kisses, smirking when Mark arches his back once he reaches the waistband of his trousers. The blond lingers, running his fingers up and down the sides of Mark’s torso, thoroughly enjoying the little grunts of frustration coming from the brunet. 

“Fuck’s sake, Ry… You’re killin’ me…” 

“Yeah? What do you want me to do instead?” Mark huffs out an impatient laugh, suddenly modest. 

“You know full well what.”

“Say it.” Something in Ryan’s voice makes him pause. It reminds him of the look in Ryan’s eyes a mere minutes ago. He swallows thickly, reaching down to tug at Ryan’s hair as he slowly, tauntingly unbuttons Mark’s trousers, sliding them down in one swift movement. “Say itttt…”

“ _ Fuck _ me. I swear to God, if you tease me for another minute…” Ryan lifts his head into Mark’s view and grins, arching an eyebrow. “I’m serious.”

“I know…” 

“Well?” Mark snaps, only partly exaggerating. The frustration is unbearable and he knows Ryan knows. 

“Patience… can be very… rewarding…” Ryan murmurs, punctuating each word with a kiss to Mark’s lower abdomen. The brunet drops his head onto the mattress, synapses firing all at once, electric shocks shooting downward as he shuts his eyes, fingers curling into the perfectly white satin sheets.

  
  


***

 

Simon hears distinctive footsteps slowly climbing the stairs and he flicks on the kettle, keeping his eyes on the worn out parenting book in his hand, procured the night before from the library. The door opens and Mark shuffles in, throwing his keys in the general direction of the table. Simon allows himself a glance, smirking when he sees how dishevelled his friend looks. 

“You didn’t come home last night.” Simon murmurs, bringing his gaze back to the book, pretending to read. Mark hums in response, reaching for a mug in the cupboard above Simon and wincing, placing a protective hand on his lower back. “Interesting.”

“It’s really not. You mind?” Mark barks. Simon arches his eyebrow as he slides over to the other end of the counter. 

“Oh, it is. Is that… is that your shirt?” Mark visibly tenses up, pursing his lips. “ _ Interesting _ .”

“Can you please just - do we have any aspirin left?”

“What, Rhinestone didn’t have any?” Simon sneers. “I mean, you already shagged a woman with a boyfriend, then took his shirt…” 

“No boyfriend.” Mark mumbles, then clears his throat. “Er, not anymore.”

“ _ Interesting _ .” Simon drawls, then sniffs. “But the cologne on that shirt is fresh and it’s clearly been worn befo--  _ oh my god _ !” He exclaims, snapping the book shut loudly. Mark winces and squeezes his eyes shut. “You - are you serious?!” The blond asks, eyes wide, disbelieving grin on his face. 

“Yes! Okay!” Mark yells, rubbing his eyes. “If you’re gonna be such a prick about it, I’m going to leave.”

“But - wait, is this why you’re getting divorced?”

“Bisexuality is a thing, Simon, but I understand why your drug addled brain might have a hard time accepting that concept.” Mark snarls, curling his palms into fists as he turns around, unable to face his friend. This was  _ not _ how he’d envisioned this conversation. 

“Now who’s being a prick?” Simon asks, sounding genuinely hurt which makes Mark mentally kick himself but he refuses to give Simon the satisfaction. “Rents.”

“What?”

“I don’t - I’m not gonna -” Simon sighs, audibly running a hand through his hair. “I don’t  _ care _ .”

“Thanks.” Mark grumbles, turning back to his friend, arms folded across his chest. 

“I  _ meant _ that I don’t mind. It changes nothing.” Mark’s expression softens, finally allowing himself to meet his friend’s eyes. “Seriously. I’m just a bit hurt that you didn’t think this was something you tell your  _ best friend _ .”

“Simon, I haven’t even told my parents.” The brunet sighs, nibbling on a hangnail on his thumb. Simon watches him silently for a few minutes before exhaling heavily. “What?”

“Nothing, it’s just… me neither.”

“Wha-?  _ Oh _ . Oh. Really? You’re-?” Mark feels his jaw hanging open and he admonishes himself, snapping it shut. He smiles slightly. “The infamous Simon David Williamson being into blokes too…” Simon snorts, then bites his lip, suddenly shy. Mark frowns then straightens his back, realisation flooding his senses. “So all the women…?”

“Reputation mattered, y’know.  _ Especially _ with Begbie around.” 

“Right.” Mark mutters, feeling his face flushing red. He isn't sure what to do with this sudden information, especially not with his hangover looming over him like a cloud of utter misery. “Seriously, about that aspirin..?”

Simon pushes himself onto the counter with a conspiratorial grin. The brunet groans, already knowing what's ahead. “Let's trade.” 

“For fuck’s sake, Si, have some sympathy.” 

“As a sociopath, I am unable to feel ‘sympathy'.” He spits the word out like it's poison and Mark shakes his head in mild amusement. 

“You and I both know that sociopath shit is a load of bull.” He throws a pointed glance at the book, thrown haphazardly onto the counter and Simon flips him off, rolling his eyes. “What do you want?” 

“Drama, obviously. Can't have cocaine, I'll settle for the chaos of your love life instead.” 

“Thanks.” 

“What's his name then? Obviously, it isn't Rhinestone. Well, this day and age…” Simon trails off, shrugging. 

“Ryan… Taylor.” 

“Which is it, then?” 

“No, it's Ryan Taylor, you dopey fuck.” 

“Like the hotel guy?” The blond asks, ignoring the insult. Mark shrugs. 

“He is ‘the hotel guy’.” Simon’s jaw drops, almost comically, and Mark snorts, lazily stirring his coffee. “Catching flies?” 

“You knobbed Ryan fuckin’ Taylor and you didn't think to tell me?! He's fucking loaded -” 

“Which is  _ exactly  _ why I didn't tell you sooner. You and your fucking scams. Doesn't it get boring?” 

“Doesn't it get boring being a whingy holier-than-thou cunt all the time?” Simon snarks back, giving Mark’s outfit a critical once-over. “That shirt alone is worth more than your entire wardrobe.” 

“Yeah. Well. Considering mine is… well.” He clears his throat, neck turning pink. Simon rubs his eyes in exasperation and his mouth contorts into his signature grimace. “Well, he won't miss it.” 

“How the hell someone like you got someone like him, I will never understand. Anyway, as unbelievably titillating this conversation is, I've got shit to do.” Simon announces, walking out of the kitchen mid sentence. Mark listens to him shrugging his jacket on, then grabbing his keys from the hanger on the wall, then rushing back into the kitchen to look for his phone. 

“What shit?” He asks, half certain that it will result in having to get Diane’s legal expertise and icy glares. 

“Shit that includes pissing in a cup, getting stabbed with a multitude of needles and getting hair pulled out. Where the fuck is my phone?!” He paces the room, lifting the stack of magazines from the kitchen table, throwing them down carelessly when he doesn't find the device. Mark silently reaches behind his friend and slips the phone from his back pocket, immediately regretting the decision when Simon, startled, steps back and grabs Mark's wrist. Oddly, he doesn't see the warning he would've expected in his friend's eyes. Instead, he sees an unsettling mix between enquiry and invitation. He clears his throat and hands his friend the phone, moment over. 

“You think you'll pass?” Simon rolls his eyes, taking a pointed swig from a bottle of an isotonic drink. 

“I've been drinking the equivalent of the Tyne in detox teas, water, isotonic drinks and taking as many vitamins as I took drugs. It's a good thing coke withdrawal makes me thirsty. And anyway, I bleach my hair, so their hair test will show fuck all.” Simon shrugs, finishes the drink and throws it in the general direction of the bin as he waves a hasty goodbye and leaves, the slam of the door giving way to a deafening silence. Mark exhales, pressing his fingers to his temples. If by some divine miracle Simon passes the tests, he thinks as he sips his scalding coffee, she'll need some place to sleep. Holdings his mug with both hands, he shuffles to the spare room and pushes against the door, breathing in a musty scent that reminds him of the London apartment. Mark reaches for the blind draw cord and squints as the morning sun streams into the room, illuminating dust particles suspended in the still air. He steps inside, kneeling on the pale beige carpet, setting his mug down as he runs his finger along the wall, frowning at the smear of mold he leaves behind. He sits back, silent, as he formulates a plan. Grabbing his phone, he taps out a quick text and drains the rest of his coffee, filled with a new energy. 

_ Hi dad, if you're not too busy today, meet me at Wickes at 12. I'll explain when we get there. Mark.  _

With that done, he drops his mug in the sink as he heads for the bathroom, shirt off before he even reaches the door. As the hot water drums his back, he wonders idly about how quickly things can change in one week, beginning with discovering his best friend has a infant child and ending in bed with one of Scotland’s most important businessmen. He smiles despite himself, recalling his and Simon’s conversation when a realisation strikes him. He thinks back to how strange things have been between them since Veronika left. Lingering looks, touches, the thing with the pub (God, the pub), the phone that morning… and now, Mark has been told Simon, the biggest womaniser in the UK, is actually interested in men. His eyes fly open, immediately squeezing shut when he realises that shampoo was on his eyelids. He chides himself, rinsing his hair. He's over analyzing, as usual. It's nothing. Just Simon's chronic neediness. Yes. Must be. 

 

***

 

“So, son. You planning on explaining… this?” Mark's father asks, leaning against the trolley as Mark compares one tin of paint to another. The younger man glances over at his father as he sets both tins onto the shelf with a frustrated sigh. 

“I think this is fairly self explanatory, dad.” Mark arches an eyebrow, pointedly shaking the paint roller he has just picked up, earning himself a disappointed sigh. “What?” He barks defensively, narrowing his eyes. 

“Mark, that’s a ¾ inch nap. You planning on painting the street?”

“I might be.” Mark mumbles, rubbing his forehead. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“Clearly. What are we doing here?” Under his father’s calculating gaze, Mark cracks. 

“I- I need to paint Simon’s spare bedroom so that I can move into it. The walls are covered in mold.”

“Move into it? Lovers’ tiff?”

“No, I - what?! We’re not… together!” Mark splutters indignantly, feeling heat creeping up his neck. His father smiles, arching an eyebrow. “We’re  _ not _ !”

“It’s okay, Mark.” They stand in awkward silence for a while, before Will continues. “So. We need a primer.”

 

***

 

“ _ Three months?!”  _ William exclaims in disbelief as he hauls a box of his son’s possessions out onto the hall while Mark works on dismantling the bed. 

“Yeah. ‘Spose she didn’t think it was important…” He mumbles, tugging at the headboard until it pops out with enough force to knock him off-balance. William hums in disapproval as he steps back inside, taking hold of another box. “What?”

“Nothing except the next hit is important when you’re an addict.” Mark pauses, dropping his head as he sighs. He knows he has no right to complain after disappearing for 20 years but he feels a stab of irritation regardless. “Hell, he probably got her hooked.”

“He’s not like that.”

“Isn’t he? Didn’t he do that to you?” Mark can feel the glare through the wall and he involuntarily shrinks into himself.

“That was over two decades ago, dad. He’s different now.”

“Hmm.” 

“Why’re you so against him?” Mark asks feebly, knowing the answer. His father doesn’t respond for a while, ignoring the question entirely. 

“I hope you’re right, son, because the Simon of 20 years ago definitely wouldn’t be able to raise a child.”

“He’s  _ changed _ .” 

“Alright, if you say so.” William concedes and they work in a tense silence until the room is entirely empty. 

***  


Simon steps into the flat, nostrils immediately filling with the unmistakeable smell of fresh paint and he frowns, sniffing. “Rentboy?” he calls out, receiving no response. Frown deepening, he shrugs off his coat and steps further into the flat, hearing the dull drone of the radio coming from Mark’s room. As he rounds the corner, his flatmate steps out of the room, pink paint splattered on his face, characteristic grin in full force. 

“Sicks.”

“What are you doing?” Simon asks, eyebrows raised.

Grin falling, as he surreptitiously puts his hands behind his back, hiding the roller, Mark clears his throat. “Decorating.”

“Your room?”

“Yes.”

“In… pink paint?”

“Yes…?”

“Is this at all related to our talk this morning?” Simon asks, smirking as Mark’s cheek flush crimson. 

“Ye-  _ no _ ! If you’re implying -”

“Then what is it?”

“A surprise. Of sorts. It would’ve been if you’d texted when you were on your way like I’d asked…”

“I did. Renton, please, don’t insult my intelligence, I know when you’re planning something.”

“Oh, for- fine! Here.” Mark steps aside, allowing Simon to see the nearly finished room, walls coated in pastel pink matte paint, empty aside from the previously dark veneer dresser which is now white, small yet intricate flower vines snaking around the sides and twirling around the drawer knobs. Mark shifts his weight uneasily and out of the corner of his eye, Simon can see his friend is quite aggressively biting his thumbnail. Eventually, after a few minutes of transfixed staring, Simon blinks and glances at Mark, who smiles sheepishly. “Too much? I mean, I know I can’t paint for shit but I thought...” He gestures at the dresser, shrugging self-consciously. 

“ _ You  _ did this?” The blond asks, incredulous, as he runs a hand through his hair. As he does so, he realises Mark’s hair, now slightly more grown out, is splashed with the paint, as is most of his outfit and any exposed skin.  _ Of course he did it, you knob _ , he thinks to himself, and, unable to speak, simply throws his arms around his friend’s neck, thankful he can’t see how red his eyes must’ve suddenly gotten. Mark stiffens at first, eyes widening in shock, but he soon melts into the embrace, placing his hands on his friend's shoulder blades, waiting until he can hear the ragged breaths relax. His heart is pounding but he takes a breath and lets his eyelids slide shut, enjoying this rare show of affection from his friend. Eventually, Simon takes a deeper breath and pulls away, sheepish grin on his face. Mark beams back, seeing the smile reach Simon’s eyes. Then, he glances at his clothes and grimaces. 

“Right, I've got one wall to finish and then I'm going to shower.” He picks at a particularly large glob of paint and sighs. “Guess I'm saying goodbye to this shirt.” With that, he disappears back into the room and turns the radio back on, wasting no time in singing the lyrics. Simon, disbelieving grin still on his face, turns on his heel and walks to his room, shutting the door with his foot as he flops forward onto the bed. Burying his face in his hands, he starts chuckling. He laughs harder the more he thinks about the situation he's in. Mark painting what used to be his room pastel pink for a child that might not end up in Simon’s care anyway. Those utterly bizarre heart flutters he gets every time he sees that God damn grin on his face. The smell of  _ him  _ in general, still lingering after the hug. The way he felt so incredibly safe when Mark’s arms. He's laughing hysterically now, shoulders shaking with each breath. He thinks about how much his life will change with a baby. He thinks about all the books, websites and classes he'll have to find just so he doesn't kill her. He thinks about how, had Dawn not died because of him, his life would probably be completely different. What would she be doing? Would she hate him? Probably. Who doesn't? 

He's just exhaling now, peals of laughter consuming his vocal cords. It's only when he pulls his hands away that he realises he'd been crying. Wiping his hands on his trousers angrily, he sits up and uses his sleeve to dry his eyes just as the shower audibly dies down. He sighs, standing up to look out his window, hoping Mark won’t hear his lingering sniffling. A tentative knock on his door makes him sigh. Wishful thinking, as ever. 

“Sicks?” Mark calls out and Simon can  _ see  _ the worry. He can see the inevitable creased brows, the taut shoulders and lip bite. “Y’alright?”

“Fine!” Simon yells back too fast, clearing his throat self consciously as he strides to the door, pulling it open. Mark jumps back slightly, startled. “Fine, I’m fine. Why?” he demands, caught between casual nonchalance and defensive aggression. The shorter man licks his lips, clearly embarrassed. 

“Well, er…” Mark gestures at Simon’s face and he rubs it, before realising that would make the redness worse. “I, er, I just wanted to make sure I haven’t… overstepped…?” The sheer fact that Mark is doubting whether Simon appreciates the gesture makes him want to cry all over again. 

“What? No. Saves me having to do it.” Mark smiles, clearly seeing through the sarcastic mask but thankfully, he keeps his thoughts to himself. Simon nods minutely and clears his throat again. “Takeout tonight or can I expect another show of your hidden culinary talents?”

“It’s not hidden, you just never asked.” Mark shrugs, then smirks. “I have many  _ other  _ hidden talents, though.” Simon narrows his eyes and feels the corner of his mouth quirk up.

“And what might those be?” He asks suggestively, arching an eyebrow. Mark’s smirk transforms into a cheeky grin and he looks away coyly, leaning against the doorframe. “Not like you to be so shy…”

“Mm, well… They’re a well-guarded secret.” Mark meets Simon’s eyes and neither of them speak for what feels like hours. Suddenly, Mark’s phone trills from somewhere in the flat and he snaps himself upright, clearing his throat. “Anyway. Let’s just get takeout. I - I’ve to go get that.” Only one thought is on Simon's mind as Mark walks away.   


_ What the fuck is going on? _


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Hope you're doing well! 
> 
> I'm truly sorry about the delay, I have another chapter waiting to be completed and edited but I've been swamped with work lately. Fuck the Christmas rush. Anyway, it's gotten so that I spend like twenty minutes in front of my computer on average, being too tired to do more than eat and sleep most nights after work. However, I owe you, Megan and myself this story so I sat down and edited this chapter. Once Christmas comes 'round, we'll be uploading more regularly. 
> 
> On an unrelated note, Megan and I will be in Edinburgh in January and I was planning to do a trip report as we'll be visiting all the locations possible from T2. I wasn't going to edit and upload it, unless you guys would watch it? Let me know :).
> 
> This chapter is a total clusterfuck. I'm sorry. Also, formatting is acting up. Hopefully it isn't too offputting.

The rain battering down on the street outside only adds to the misery of the morning rush crowd, many of them in business attire holding umbrellas in one hand, with a coffee, briefcase and phone in the other as they make their way to work, clearly wishing to be anywhere else. Simon takes a sip of his latte as he takes his eyes off the still dark street, turning toward Diane instead as she sits down with her mug. She smiles at him and takes her blazer off, hanging it on the back of her chair. Whatever hostility Mark may think is between them is simply not there. It wasn’t long after Mark’s disappearance that they realised they were a prime example of opposites attract. In fact, her acting as Simon’s consciousness is why he had no prior criminal history. Simon clears his throat as he sits back in his seat, seeming on edge yet trying to mask it.  

“Have you heard who Mark’s been shagging?”

Diane purses her lips as she stirs her mocha, expression blank.  “I was under the impression that it was you.”

Simon inhales sharply, hitting the table with his fist harder than he intended to, glaring at Diane as he grabs a napkin to contain the coffee splash. “ _ No, _ it’s not me, you smartarse, it’s Ryan-fuckin’-Taylor.” 

Diane’s cup falters on its way to her bright red lips, one of her perfectly plucked eyebrows rising. “You're kidding.” 

“Nope. But keep it hush-hush,” Simon says, bringing his finger to his lips, “because he's being his typical nancyboy self about it and he'd probably strangle me if he found out I told you. D’you know he didn't plan on telling me? I mean, I had to confront him about him wearing one of Taylor’s shirts before he owned up!” He sighs indignantly and tries to ignore the stab of jealousy and hurt in his chest. Diane murmurs in acknowledgement and they sit in companionable silence for a while until Simon speaks up again. “I’ve some news too.”

“Oh?”  

Simon licks his lips and smiles sheepishly. “You’re gonna be a godmother. If you want to be, of course.” 

Diane arches an eyebrow, leaning forward onto the table, arms loosely folded in front of her. “I was unaware that two men could conceive.” 

The blond sighs in exasperation, rubbing his temples. “I was seeing this girl in Glasgow and, well… now I have a three month old daughter in foster care ‘cause her bitch mother is in for junk use and was deemed unfit to care for her.”

Diane clears her throat, propping her head up on one hand. “Aren’t you also a user?”

“Not according to the drug test I passed.”

“You’re clean?” 

“Yes,” Simon sighs, feeling a pang of need, “but only because of Renton, of course, the Messiah complex on that guy is fuckin’ laughable. He’s been so insufferable lately, Christ, was he always like that or…?”

“No, that sounds like him alright. What’s her name?” 

“Eilidh.” 

Diane murmurs in approval and finishes her coffee, leaning back into her armchair. Simon mirrors her movement, sighing as he rubs his face. He can feel her concerned gaze and he sighs again. 

“Simon?” 

“I can talk to you, right?”

“Of course.”

“And you’ll keep it between us?”

“Which law did you break this time?” Diane smirks and Simon rolls his eyes, brow relaxing slightly. 

“It’s not that. It’s actually about Mark.” 

“Is he okay?”

“ _ He’s _ fine.  _ I’m  _ not.” Simon spits it out reluctantly, immediately wishing he hadn’t said a word. “Jesus Christ, I’m losing my fucking mind, Di, and I can’t talk to anyone else about it.”

“Well, I’ve got time.” She smiles warmly, leaning forward again and scooching her chair closer, hands on her lap. She looks so open, so caring that Simon can’t stop himself from rambling it all off. 

“There is something  _ seriously  _ wrong with me. Every time he looks at me, I feel like I’m fifteen again. My heart starts pounding like I just ran a marathon. I can’t stand any physical contact with him because my hands start shaking and I  _ blush _ ,  _ Diane, I blush for fuck’s sake! _ ” He hisses the last part and exhales deeply, licking his lips. “I don’t know if it’s - I’m probably reading into it but we nearly kissed at least three times in the last week and it’s driving me mad. We went to Glasgow, to see Eilidh, yeah? I got drunk, started flirting with him, he  _ flirted back _ , I got jealous when a bird hit on him… Oh, did I mention we slept together?” Diane’s eyes widen and Simon shakes his head vehemently. “Same bed, nothing like that, but, Jesus, my body seemed to think what you just did. Yesterday, I got home, he’s painted his room pastel pink for her and moved his shit into the tiny, damp spare. You know what I did? I went off and fucking  _ cried _ . What the fuck is happening to me?” She smiles knowingly, dropping her head as she tries to contain her laughter. “This funny to you?” 

“A little,” she nods, looking up at her friend. “Listen to yourself, Simon, really listen. Heart palpitations, jealousy, flirting? I mean, seriously.”  She smiles kindly and meets his gaze. “It's pretty clear to me that you have feelings for Mark.” 

“Don't be ridiculous. This has to be related to withdrawal.” Simon snaps, cheeks flushing. Diane arches an eyebrow and he drops his head into his hands. “Jesus fucking Christ, you're right. Of course you are.” 

“Say it.” 

“Didn't I just -?” 

Diane shakes her head. “You haven't admitted it to yourself. Until you say it out loud, you can pretend it's not real, no big deal, it's just mood swings from the drugs.” 

“I don't want it to be real.” Simon whispers and sighs. “I don't want it to be real because he will never feel the same way. Why settle for  _ me _ when he can have an attractive, rich, caring boyfriend that doesn't make his life miserable? I have emotional baggage, obviously, and he hasn't done anything to deserve dealing with it.”

“You really are an idiot, you know that?” 

“Thanks. Do you have a point to make or are you just being a bitch?” 

“Your emotional baggage is pretty much all related to him, isn't it? Starting from when you were thirteen and ran away from your abusive father right into Mark's arms. And even now, your anger and hurt and regret, that's all to do with him. Maybe if you let him in, you'll find he  _ wants  _ to deal with it,  _ wants  _ to help.” 

“Right.” Simon scoffs. “What if I let him in and he fuckin’ drops off the face of the Earth again, hm?”

“You can’t live on a ‘what if’. Besides, he’s not going to do that again. Trust me.” Diane says pointedly and Simon is convinced she knows something he doesn’t. "So. What are you going to do?" 

Simon's smile falls and he shrugs. "What can I do? I mean, I don't even know what it is I'm feeling. How can I expect him to reciprocate? That's foregoing the fact that he's seeing someone else. And the fact that, just because he's bisexual, doesn't mean I'm his type. We've been friends too long, there's no way he's got any feelings towards me." 

"Not his type? Have you seen Ryan? Blonde hair, same steely eyes, same dazzling grin..." Diane trails off dreamily, then corrects herself, clearing her throat. 

"You're grasping at straws. He and I look nothing alike." 

"You're in denial." 

"And you're a romantic. Face it, Diane, it'll never happen. Doesn't matter what I feel." Diane sighs and purses her lips, dissatisfied. Simon crosses his arms and stares back defensively, hating the feeling of being so exposed emotionally. “Look, thanks for listening. Don’t you have to get to work soon?”

“You’re right. I have to be there in forty minutes and, going by the state of the road," she points at the traffic jam extending past the end of the street, "I have to get going now. Think about what I said. And you'd better call me later and tell me everything about your daughter! See ya’!" She calls, smiling as she shrugs on her blazer, stepping out of the cafe. Simon watches her jog awkwardly in her kitten heels to her car before he exhales, rubbing his face with his hands. He’d love to go home but home is a long shopping list away. He finds himself wishing Mark was there to help, but, as he'd said, " _ someone _ needs to earn money, Simon." He's stuck with the errands alone. Sighing again, he stands, buttoning his jacket as he reaches for his umbrella. As he looks at the street, he finds himself sorely missing his beloved car. With a dejected grimace, he heads for the tram station. 

 

***

 

“ _ Renton!” _ Simon yells up the stairs, glaring at the open window. Mark’s stupid fucking shit eating grin appears and then the rest of his smug face follows, puppy dog eyes completing his trademark cunty look. “Would you stop being such a fuck? Help me, bloody hell!”

“Nah, watching you struggle is just too much fun.” His flatmate sneers, stepping onto the stairs despite his words. 

“Fuck off, get down here before my back fucking snaps!” Simon grunts, trying in vain to drag yet another flat pack up the stone steps. Mark, still grinning, lifts the other side and they slowly ascend the steps, unceremoniously dropping the box into the hallway. “You are actually such a wanker.”

“Or you could’ve asked nicely.”

“Or you could’ve had some initiative, been a decent mate and helped me out when you saw me trying to manage this shit alone.” 

Mark rolls his eyes, shutting the front door as he takes in the sheer amount of boxes. “I almost don’t want to ask this, but… where’d the money for this come from?”

Simon eyes him evenly, pouting in irritation. “Turns out I’m not as unlikeable as you think. I borrowed it. From a  _ friend _ .”

“Is that what you call your clientele?”

“I swear to God, I’m going to give you a lobotomy.” Simon hisses, pointing the drill he’d just taken out of storage at Mark, who just laughs and shakes his head. “Just - just shut up, Christ.” His voice dissolves into chuckling as he stares at the mess on the floor. 

“Something tells me we’re not gonna get through this shit without alcohol. Back in a mo’.” 

The blond watches his friend as he heads into the kitchen and disappears from view. Have those jeans always looked this good on him? He licks his lips absentmindedly, then mentally kicks himself. Diane’s words echo in his mind and he closes his eyes, throwing his head back as he tugs at his hair, a low groan escaping his throat.  _ Fuuuuuuuuuck. _

 

Mark reappears suddenly, bottle of whiskey in his hand.  “You feelin’ alright there?”

_ Fuck no,  _ he wants to tell him,  _ and it’s all your fault.  _ Instead, he just nods and rubs his eyes. Mark smiles reassuringly and picks up some of the smaller boxes, headed toward his old room. Simon wishes he’d stop fucking smiling. Every single god damn smile makes him want to punch himself straight in the gut. How can he be so happy while Simon wants to throw himself in front of a train?  _ This is torture _ . With a sigh, he grabs a few of the lighter boxes and follows his friend, forcing himself to think of nothing other than the assembly of furniture. Going by the light way Mark is moving around the room, faint smile ghosting his lips, that’s gonna prove to be the most difficult thing Simon’s ever had to do. 

"Fuck's made you so happy, hm?" Simon asks brusquely, leaning against the door frame as Mark grins at him.

"Yes."

"What?" Simon snaps, then rolls his eyes as realisation hits. "Wow. Should've expected a smartarse answer."

"No, I'm serious. Well, don't look at me like that!" Mark exclaims defensively as Simon narrows his eyes in displeasure. "You asked!"

“Twenty years, you haven’t changed a damn bit.” 

"Thanks," Mark sneers, taking out the elements of the cot from the box. He hands the white instruction booklet to Simon who purses his lips in determination. 

“Fuck that, how hard can it be to build a fuckin’ cot?” 

Mark arches an eyebrow but Simon shoots him a confident, smug grin and Mark’s lips curl into a smile. 

“This’ll be fun.”

“Alright, Mr Sarcastic, shut up and drink, we’ve got a shit ton to do.” Simon smirks and knocks back his glass. Mark follows suit, pointing it toward Simon as a silent toast. He licks his lips and sets the glass down, a strange look clouding his face.

"I like it when you get so dominant."

Simon splutters, unsure if his ears are failing him. He coughs, placing his palms on the dresser as he looks over. One glance at Simon's shocked expression is all it takes. Mark collapses into peals of laughter, covering his mouth with his hand to stifle it as Simon glares daggers at him.

"Are you done?" He snaps, once Mark finally takes a breath. The brunet nods and takes a swig straight from the bottle.

"Let's get to it. Wanna start with the easiest?” Mark gestures at the box containing a bedside table. Simon glares at his friend who stifles a smile. 

“Who d’ya take me for? Have I ever gone the easy route?”

“Hm, let’s see… Easy women, easy money, easy drugs, easy -”

“Shut it.” Simon interrupts, pointing a threatening finger at Mark who raises his hands in mock fear. With a poorly masked grin, Simon sits down in front of the mound of boards, screws and nails and reluctantly reaches for the instructions.

 

***

They work in relative silence for a while, talking more as the bottle slowly drains. Simon stands up from the chair he was building and collapses into giggles, looking at the malformed piece of furniture. Mark glances over and he too bursts into laughter, leaning against the dresser. 

"How do you fuck up building a chair?" He asks, slurring through his giggles. Simon shakes his head, sitting beside Mark as he admires his failure. 

"They should put that into a modern art exhibit." He chortles, shaking his head. Mark snorts and takes a sip of his whiskey, laughter slowly dying away. 

"We did a pretty good job, overall, though now I'm not sure I can stand." He murmurs and giggles slightly again, letting his head drop onto Simon's shoulder. With a sigh, Simon swigs the remnants of the whiskey from the bottle and lets it roll from his hand onto the carpet beneath. The reality of the situation hits him like a tonne of bricks. He’s doing up  _ his daughter’s nursery.  _ With a shaky breath, he crawls over to the chair and attempts to fix his failure in silence as Mark looks on, concerned. Finally, when the chair is fixed, Simon has collected himself enough to ask Mark why exactly he thought an activity requiring coordination and hard liquor were a good thing to mix. Mark ignores the question, instead choosing to ask one of his own, "do we have to finish building it all today?", flopping down onto the now properly assembled chair. Simon considers it, taking in the amount of boxes still to be opened and the fact that the home visit is scheduled for the end of the week. He chucks the screw driver in a random direction and shakes his head. "Good, cause I'm in the mood for a huge fuckin' pizza and a marathon of the entire Bond series." 

"God, I love you." Simon says, reaching for his phone. His heart skips a beat when he voices those words and he grimaces, desperately telling himself it's actually a sign of imminent death from alcohol poisoning and not the fact that there may be some truth in the statement. Mark giggles and slides down the chair onto the floor, putting his hands under his head as he stares at the ceiling, enjoying the silence. 

 

***

 

The empty pizza box crumples beneath Simon’s feet as he props his legs up on the coffee table, desperately trying to keep his eyes open, at least until Bond finishes explaining all the flaws in Goldfinger’s plan to him. Mark, who’d given up on staying awake ten minutes into the film, is splayed out on the sofa, one leg hanging off the edge while the other rests on his friend’s lap. With a yawn, Simon shuffles slightly and notices Mark’s phone screen lighting up, multiple notifications on the lockscreen. Slowly, he reaches over and picks up the device, reading the snippets shown on the screen. 

**Mark? Hey, I’m at the pub where…**

**Hey, you okay?**

**If you weren’t interested you could’ve…**

**Standing me up is one thing but ignoring…**

Simon stares at the phone in shock. Did Mark ditch a date to hang out with him? With a thoughtful pout, he places the phone next to Mark and leans back, trying and failing to focus on the film again. Suddenly, Mark stirs and sits bolt upright, eyes bleary yet wide. 

"Fuck!" 

"Jesus! What?!" Simon exclaims, startled. Mark reaches for his phone and scans the texts, frown deepening every second. 

"Shit." He mumbles and stands, dialling a number while walking into his room. He doesn't shut his door, however, and Simon can hear snippets of the heated conversation.

"Ryan, hey... No, I’m not dr- I - what? Excuse me? No, I swear to you I didn't mean to stand you up, I was helping Si - yeah, I'm going to spend time with him! One, he's my best friend and two, Christ, Ry, he has a social worker visit in a few days -- you don't care, yeah, fine, but it would be nice to show some compassion. Why is it important?! Are you kidding? I've told you! -- Okay, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have yelled.... Please, just forgive me. I didn't mean to ruin things. I like what we've got, I don't want -- thank you. I'll see you tomorrow night? I promise I'll make it up to youuuuu... Okay, see you." 

Simon purses his lips as the conversation continues, doing his best to act like he's totally invested in the film. Mark flops back down on the sofa and rubs his temples, looking at Simon through his remarkably long eyelashes. “I’m bored out of my fuckin’ tits, Sickboy, let’s do something fun.”

“Like what?” Simon asks, narrowing his eyes. Mark shrugs and Simon looks away, eyes falling onto his keys nearby. “Pub?”

“Ugh.” Mark grunts, hugging his knees to his chest and pouting. “That requires walking.”

“Yeah, but there’s more alcohol there.” Before Simon can say anything else, Mark has shot up and grabbed his jacket, motioning for Simon to do the same. With a huff of laughter, he does so, clapping his friend on the back as he passes him. 

 

***

 

“C’mon, Simon, it’s colder than a witch’s tit out here.” Mark whines, shuffling his feet while Simon struggles with the old, sticky lock. Simon shoves the door open and glares at Mark, who grins innocently. 

“Keep bitchin’ and I’ll lock you in here.”

“Good. Leave me with the whisky.”

“This bar’s losing money as it is,” Simon laughs sharply, then allows it to develop into a more natural chuckle. “What’ll it be?”

“Double scotch on the rocks, my dearest friendimundo.” Mark stumbles on his newly invented word and giggles, seeing Simon snort in amusement.

“Never try speaking Spanish again. The closest you’ll ever get to Spain is buying a Tesco paella.”

“Fuck off, yeah? I was trying to woo you with my lin- lingis- fuck it, with my words.” Mark smirks and takes a long sip of his drink, clearing his throat. “Why is it - why’s it that I always get injured in here? Like- like when you snapped the cues on my back. Did’ya ever replace those?” Simon nods, hoping to steer Mark’s thoughts from the second pub injury. 

“Wanna play?”

“As long as you hit harder this time…”

Simon splutters, then chuckles, shaking his head at his friend as he downs the drink, licking his lips as he arches an eyebrow.

"Mm. I don't wanna buy  _ another  _ set. Maybe another time..." He trails off, momentarily losing his train of thought as Mark tilts his head back, drink in his hand, accentuating his jawline and making Simon feel momentarily too hot. He shrugs off his blazer, throwing it clumsily behind himself.

"Ooh, stripping f- for me already? Takin' it a bit fassst there, Sickboy."

“Piss off, yeah?" Simon stumbles over his words, trying to pour them both more drinks without spilling most of it on himself.

"But - but watching you squirm is just too - much fun." Mark smirks, resting his head on his hand, resulting in him inching closer to Simon despite the counter separating them. "D'you know... I've got a theory."

"Is that so?" Simon asks, attempting nonchalance and failing as he sways slightly and has to grip onto the wooden pillar next to him.

"Mm. See... I have this... This theory that you have the hots for me."

Simon splutters again, choking on his drink and grimacing as it burns his esophagus.

"You're mad if you think I want to shag you, Marky."

Mark simply arches an eyebrow and finishes his drink, purposefully striding towards the pool table.

"We playin' or what?" He shrugs off his jacket as he walks, quite clearly deliberately throwing it in the direction of the booths, exaggerating his movements as he does so. “No need for this, eh? Only hinder my gameee.”

“Game? Hah! Swanney’s got better game than you and he’s - he’s dead!” 

“Game, Swanney, really? He’d hit the deck before you finished the tr-triangle,” Mark lets out a resonant laugh and runs a hand through his slightly more grown out hair. Simon, managing to contain his laughter, motions of Mark to break the table. “A’ight, move. Swear to God, if I catch you starin’ at my ass, you’re gonna pay.”

“Yeah, yeah, don't flatter yourself." Simon grumbles, watching with one eyebrow raised as his friend manages to execute a perfect shot despite barely being able to stay upright. A striped ball rolls into a pocket and he grins, eyes crinkling. Simon feels his own mouth curl into a smirk and he rolls his eyes playfully, giving Mark a teasing side eye. As he lines up, bleary eyes attempting to focus and calculate the trajectory, an electric shock travels up his spine. He grunts, startled, and doubles over, missing his shot entirely. He turns and glares at Mark, who is still standing behind him, fingers poised to deliver yet another poke to his hips. "Renton, I swear to God -" Mark shrugs, grinning innocently lifting his hands in a gesture of surrender. Simon straightens, stepping away to allow Mark to take the shot. Two can play at that game, he thinks, and leans on his cue, feigning nonchalance. Mark bends over the table, brows furrowed in concentration. The blond allows himself a glance and he raises an eyebrow, seeing the extent to which Mark strains his jeans. He'd always been a fan of those ridiculous almost skin tight jeans but, hell, they do look damn good on him. Blinking, Simon returns to the present. He has a plan to execute and checking Mark out is not part of it. Silently, he moves behind his friend and surreptitiously readies his hands, watching Mark line up to take the shot. With no warning, he clamps down on Mark's shoulders, pressing his fingers into the muscle. Mark lets out a squeak and raises his shoulders, squeezing Simon's hands against his cheeks as he attempts to fight off the taller man, giggling madly as he does so. Simon, unable to hold on due to his laughter, lets go and leans against the table, throwing his head back as he chortles, shoulders shaking. He glances at Mark and collapses into another giggle fit, clamping a hand over his mouth to calm himself. Mark, still tense, watches his friend with a concerned gaze. 

Simon takes in a shuddering breath and stammers, "You - you looked like a - fucking - turtle," then falls back, laughter transforming into a silent fit of convulsions. Mark watches Simon in hysterics and collapses into a hopeless fit of giggles, just listening to the sound of the other man desperately trying to catch a breath while still letting out short snickers, clapping both hands over his mouth and biting his tongue. Once he manages to take a breath, he sits back up and sighs, chest aching from the laughter. “Refill?”

“Please.” Mark nods, turning back to the table to take his shot. 

“Same?”

“Yepsidoodle.” The brunet grins and snickers. 

“What language is that, Marky, eh?”

“Finnish, obv- obviously.” Mark says somberly then smirks. Simon hands him the glass with a flourish, doing an exaggerated bow.

“One scotch on the rocks for Mr Renton.”

“Why, thank you, Mr Williamson.” Mark grins, tapping his glass on Simon’s. “Your - your turn.”

“Thank you, good Sir.” Simon says, doing his best to focus on the shot and keep an eye on Mark at the same time. To no avail, however, as Mark, the cunning little prick, goes for his weak spot - the back of the knee. With a surprised grunt, Simon whirls around, intending to ask Mark what the fuck he’s playing at, but as soon as he open his mouth, Mark’s lips are crashing into his own. With a small yelp, Simon drops his cue, resting his palms on the edge of the table as he lets his eyes slide shut. It’s messy, sloppy and there’s a lot of teeth knocking but in that moment, it’s perfect. Simon brings his arms to his friend’s hips and twists them around so that Mark is pressed against the table, standing on his toes to sit on the edge. Without breaking the connection, Mark wraps his legs around Simon’s waist, snaking his hands into his hair. As he does so, he loses his balance and tilts back, pulling Simon with him as his head hits a stray cue ball, causing them to break apart as the blond looks on in shock. Mark considers the injury for a second before bursting into laughter, choking out a noise of pain as he does so. Seeing Mark didn’t just get a concussion, Simon allows himself to chuckle too, sitting up on the table as he watches Mark in a fit of soft laughter, slowly settling into a wide smile. Simon sighs and looks away, understanding the weight of the situation even in his drunken state. Mark props himself up on his elbow and reaches up, eyes saying more than words could. Pulling the blond closer, he connects their lips once more and all thoughts of immorality disappear from his head, allowing himself to fall back beside Mark and melt into the kiss, this time more coordinated. Time slows, warps, falls away as nothing except this matters. Mark’s hands reach up to Simon’s neck, fingers surprisingly nimble as he undoes two buttons at once, causing the cross chain to fall. Mark grimaces as the necklace hangs far too near his face. He lowers one hand and clasps the cross, tugging at it in an attempt to remove it. Simon pulls away suddenly, putting his hand on his mouth. He sits up, breathing heavily as he looks at Mark, still lying on the table with a mix of concern and disappointment on his face, clearly wanting more if the tightness of his jeans was anything to go by. He props himself up on his elbows and nudges Simon with his shoulder, eyes pleading and dark. Simon smiles ruefully at Mark and presses a soft kiss to his temple, shaking his head. 

"What's wrong? Did I do something?" Mark asks, sounding much more put together than he had before. 

Simon vehemently shakes his head, sighing. "No. No, you're - perfect. This is perfect. But I can't." 

"Why? Don't you want me?" The brunet asks, pouting slightly. Simon laughs curtly. 

"Oh, you have no idea how much I want you, this. I really fuckin' do. But... Can we just... Enjoy being close? Let's just lie here, okay?" 

"Sure. Fine." Mark murmurs, lying back down to nestle himself in the crook of Simon's arm. With a contented sigh, the older man lets his eyelids flutter shut and he drifts off to sleep, completely oblivious to the turmoil in his best friend’s head. Once he's certain Mark is not waking up anytime soon, he gently moves away to sit on the edge of the table, flicking his lighter open as he shakes a cigarette from the pack in his pocket, taking a deep drag as he looks around the darkened room, eyes resting on the red blinking light in the corner of the wall. 

Oh.

Oh  _ fuck _ . 

 

***

Simon runs a hand through his hair, watching himself and Mark through the eye of the camera, barely registering what he’s seeing. He remembers it, of course, all of it. Waking up, he was sure it had all been a stupidly vivid dream, triggered by the alcohol, but that illusion was shattered the moment he saw Mark next to him, arm draped over his eyes, a slightly pained expression on his sleeping face. Leaving his best friend on the table, blanket loosely draped over him, he’d ripped the data onto a flash drive, a million thoughts rushing through his head, the main one being whether or not Mark remembers. The worry continues to plague his sleep deprived brain, a dull throbbing casting shadows over his vision. 

 

His bedroom door suddenly creaks open and the blond slams his laptop shut, twisting so his back is facing the door. He attempts to slow his breathing and feign sleep, eyes screwed shut. He can hear the older man tiptoe in, hesitate, then turn around and softly shut the door, shoes clicking on the wooden floors of the hall as he leaves the flat. Once he hears the front door lock, Simon sits up and exhales, heart pounding. In one swift movement, he grabs his phone off the bedside table and, with shaking hands, dials a number he's been calling a lot more often since Mark returned. She answers almost immediately, sounding like she expected the call. "Diane. I need you. Like, right the fuck now." 

"What happened?" She asks, a playful note in her voice. Simon makes a desperate noise and she laughs. "Who'd you kill?" 

"It'll be myself if you don't come over and stop me." 

"Jesus, Simon, you're such a drama queen. What, did you lose your knockoff Rolex? Stain the Armani?" Simon simply groans in anguish and terminates the call, falling backwards onto his pillows with a groan. He's well aware of how dramatic he's being but he can't help it. Anyway, he's sure Diane will appreciate the seriousness of the situation once she sees the footage. She'll have to.

 

***

“Well. Aren’t you lucky today’s my day off?” Diane quips when the door to her friend’s flat flies open, the blond already turning around to head further into the apartment. “Hi to you too, arsehole.”

“Piss off.” He mumbles, gesturing towards the laptop on the coffee table. She sighs in resignation, crossing her legs as she sits on the sofa, tapping the spacebar with a perfectly manicured nail, a bored expression crossing her face. Simon watches his friend’s almost comical jaw drop as the footage progresses. She raises an eyebrow slowly, barely stifling a grin. “Glad you find my misery so hilarious. Well!? What do I do!?"

"Buy some lube and condoms and have a party." She smirks then giggles when he clenches his fists and shakes one at her in exasperation. "Stop being an idiot. Talk about what happened." 

"I have no idea what the fuck happened, Di!" 

"Crystal clear to me. He kissed you, you kissed back. Pretty much one interpretation here."

"Right, so the alcohol had nothing to do with it?" 

“I didn't say that but generally you don't pull your best friend onto a pool table and snog the face off him if you don't have some latent feelings for him." 

"Hardly, I-" Simon begins then sighs deeply, running a hand through his hair. "- don't even know if he remembers." 

"Well," Diane smiles cunningly, unplugging the USB drive and pointing it at her friend, "this is a keepsake, so the memory need never fade. Prove it to him. I mean, this is pretty definitive." 

"How do I even start this conversation?! Hey, Rents, you remember our makeout session yesterday? Yeah, well, what are we gonna do about it? Oh, don't believe me? Here. I have the recording, like some sort of perv!" His voice cracks at the end of the sentence and he clears his throat angrily, crossing his arms. "This is so fucking hopeless." 

"How old are you?" Diane asks, standing up to face Simon, who, despite towering over her, seems like he wishes to be nothing but small and invisible. 

"Forty four?" He responds, irritated. She gasps in mock surprise and rolls her eyes. 

"Really! Cause the way you're acting I could have sworn you're fourteen!" 

"You're one to talk. Exactly  _ what  _ were you doing at fourteen?" He snipes and she flushes, looking down. He clears his throat, breaking the awkward silence. "I called you here for moral support, not to endure mockery and teasing." 

"What do you want me to do?" She asks, throwing her hands into the air. "I'm telling you -  _ talk to him _ ." 

"I don't even know how to talk to him anymore. He's - we've both changed and some days it's like we're twenty again, some, it's like he's this completely different person just pretending to be Mark. It's fucking me up. He's dating a guy but he flirts with me - and I'm certain that's what this is, I mean, it's happened way too many times for it to be my wishful thinking - and then he fucking pulls me onto the goddamn table with one thing in mind. But at the same time, he's telling Ryan he wants their thing to keep going, wants to see him again -- what the hell is he doing?" Diane sighs heavily and rubs her temples. 

"You're so oblivious sometimes. Here." She slides the USB stick into his breast pocket and smiles softly. "Talk to me when you finally acknowledge what's going on here cause I know you know. Sit him down, have a discussion. There's two ways it can end. One, you end up fucking which is brilliant because the tension between you two is palpable and he's not even in the room, or two, he denies his blatant crush for a little while longer until he can't anymore and then you end up fucking. It’s a win-win to me." 

"You are actually so naive. You really think it's that easy." 

"I don't think. I know. I want something, I take it. How do you think I ended up where I am? Follow my advice. Want him? Take him." She pats him on the shoulder and turns to leave. Just before she steps out the front door, crimson heels clicking on the wood, she turns and with a wink, calls out, "in any case, use protection. Who knows what you've got?" 

The door shuts and leaves Simon in deafening silence, own heartbeat pulsing in his ears. He scarcely lets himself consider her words. With a shakily poured shot of vodka, Simon sits at the kitchen table and drops his head into his hands. Fuck.

 

The hours tick by painfully slowly, feeling like years. Finally, the front door creaks open and Mark's footsteps sound in the hall. Simon feels all blood rush to his feet as he bounds for the sofa in three leaps, attempting to look as nonchalant and relaxed as possible. He takes out his phone and pretends to text, watching Mark's movements from the corner of his eye. He notices his phone pressed to his shoulder as he slides off his shoes, heading straight for the kitchen. "Hey." He speaks, and God, he sounds awful. "Yeah, hey Ryan. Listen, I know we have plans tonight -- no, no not cancel, but change. I've got a migraine and the last thing I want to do is drink. Well, I was thinking, quiet movie night in? Alright. I'll be at your place at around 8, yeah? Alright. See you." He hangs up and puts down the phone with a grimace, doubling over and gripping his head, eyes squeezed tightly shut. Simon lowers his phone and sits up, seeing the amount of pain Mark is in. 

"You okay?" 

The brunet shakes his head weakly and shuffles over to the sofa, curling up in one corner. "Not really, no." He mumbles, draping one arm over his eyes to block out the light. Simon reaches over and flicks the floor lamp off, seeing immediate relief flood his friend's face. "I thought I was just hungover but I guess not. My head is killing me. And there's a spot in the back more sensitive than the rest. The fuck happened last night?" Simon feels his heart sink. Of course. 

"Nothing of note. Well. As far as I remember, anyway." He lies, feigning ignorance. "All I remember is us drinking at the pub. Memory gets a bit fuzzy after the third scotch." 

"Mm. We went to the pub? I can't even remember that. Last thing I remember was calling Ryan. Then, nothing. Blanked out." 

"Hm." Simon mumbles and bites down on his lip hard to avoid telling Mark exactly what he's forgetting. "If you're in that much pain you should just sleep it off." 

"I want nothing more but I don't want to cancel again. He'll think I'm not interested." 

"Or he'll understand if he's not entirely insecure?" Mark opens his eyes slightly to peer at Simon, a silent warning in his eyes. Warning about what, Simon has no clue and Mark doesn't offer a further explanation. "Can I ask you something?" Simon pipes up. Mark shrugs and the blond decides to take that as a yes. "Look, last night... That conversation you had with Ryan... He seems a bit... jealous? And you've only been seeing each other for a little over two weeks? Doesn't that seem off to you?" 

"Maybe I'm just that much of a catch, hm?" Mark snaps and rubs his face with his hands, sitting up. "Listen. Whatever your problem is with him, forget it. He makes me feel good and I like being with him, so, sorry, but I don't care what you think about him." Mark stands, arms crossed. Simon opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out, being too startled by the outburst to think of a coherent response. "Don't wait up." With that, Mark rushes into his room, grabs his duffel bag and heads out, slamming the door shut. Simon stares at the slab of wood, wondering what the everloving fuck just happened. With a resigned sigh, he reaches for the remote and lets the TV buzz in the background as he loses himself in his thoughts. 

 

Mark stands outside the door for a while, clutching his head as he regains his breath from the rant. He feels a stab of regret in his chest which he brushes off. Being caring is not something Simon can do, not without an ulterior motive. He’s the jealous one. Jealous of Mark’s happiness, his relationship, his emotional wellbeing. Sticking his hands in his pockets, Mark walks briskly down the steps and heads toward the main street, thoughts rushing through his head at a thousand miles per hour. Ryan makes him feel good. Ryan showers him with affection and care and he's the best thing to happen to him in a long time. Who cares if he gets a bit jealous? It just shows he cares. Simon nearly killed him more times than Mark can count. Simon got him into the drugs. Simon doesn't care. He can't. He's just a manipulative, amoral dick who'll exploit anyone he can for anything he wants. This line of rationalisation continues as he walks to Ryan's flat, every statement making him angrier. Simon has clearly been trying to interfere with the one good thing in Mark's life because he's so miserable he can't stand to see anyone else happy. He's the jealous, needy one, not Ryan. Obviously he just wants to ruin Mark's relationship so he's not alone in his bitterness. Well, he won't let him succeed. He won't. Who cares if Mark sees his steely eyes in Ryan's? Who cares if he woke up with the faint smell of Simon's cologne on his shirt and the taste of menthol tobacco on his lips with no explanation? Who cares if he always comes back to Simon in the end? Who cares if every sincere, genuine smile on Simon's face caused by something Mark says or does makes him feel giddy? Who cares? Mark wants to scream in frustration, clenching his fists in his pockets as he elbows the button for the lift. His head is killing him, he's tired and all he wants is to sleep all his problems away but he can't. So he plasters on a false smile as Ryan opens his front door, kisses him with false passion and curls up next to him on the sofa, pretending to be happy when in reality his mind is anywhere but in that flat with him.

“Something on your mind?” Ryan asks, stroking Mark’s hair, each agitated follicle sending sharp stabs through his skin.

“I’m alright. Head’s still killing me.”

Ryan tuts affectionately, sliding his hand down to Mark’s shoulder instead, squeezing gently. “Babe, if you’d told me it was that bad, we could’ve rescheduled.”

Mark sighs and shrugs. “I didn’t want to ditch you again, after last night. I wanted to see you, honest.”

“What were you up to last night, anyway?” Ryan asks lightly, glancing down at Mark’s pained face. 

“I was helping Simon put up furniture. We’d had a few drinks and I just-”

“Simon.” Ryan snaps, grip on Mark’s shoulder tightening painfully.

“It wasn’t his fault. We  _ do  _ live together, I am going to spend time with my friend. Still, I’m sorry about standing you up. I didn’t mean to.” The apology seems to placate Ryan as his grip relaxes and his voice returns to its usual gentle, caring tone. 

“I’ve got Solpadeine somewhere, I can get you some?” Solpadeine. Mark rolls his eyes. It's as though he's being deliberately taunted. 

“Thanks, but, er… codeine.” 

“Oh, right. Sorry.” Ryan murmurs, not sounding sorry in the slightest. Mark frowns, rubbing his eyes. “You alright with this film?”

“I don’t mind.” Mark mumbles. With a barely stifled yawn, he lets himself drift off to a restless sleep. 

 

The pain barely improves when he awakes a few hours later, curled up in Ryan's bed with the older man next to him, fast asleep. He sits up and clutches his head as the pressure change increases the throbbing. With a grimace, he slowly shuffles over to the window and watches the traffic below, briefly contemplating doing another runner. A temporary solution, sure, but a solution nonetheless. With a heavy sigh, he turns back to the bed and sees Ryan turn around, sleepily feeling around for Mark. He shuffles over silently and slides into the massive bed, allowing himself to be pulled into a tight embrace, ignoring the fact that the last thing he wants to do is be near anyone. Including Ryan, someone who's supposed to make everything seem better, more bearable. Instead, tonight, he seems like one of the causes of Mark's sour mood. 

***

 

An hour later, Mark sighs in annoyance and sits up, having been unable to fall back asleep. Ryan mumbles sleepily and rolls over, his back to the brunet as he slowly slides out of bed, wincing when his feet touch the cold laminate floor. With a long exhale, he wastes no time in getting dressed and slipping out of the apartment, hoping Ryan doesn’t wake up until late morning, allowing work to be used as an excuse. 

Edinburgh is eerily desolate at 3am, Mark notes not for the first time. His shoes echo in the empty alleyways and he feels himself hasten his breathing, an odd sense of foreboding overcoming his senses. Bitterly cold air nips at the back of his neck and he shivers, cramming his hands down his pockets. Passing by Veronika’s old apartment, Mark’s hit with a stab of guilt and he takes out his phone, tapping out a quick, inadequate apology to his friend, disregarding the time. When he receives no response, he brushes it off as his friend simply being asleep. Still, there is that unshakeable trepidation in the back of his mind and he finds himself hoping it’s just from lack of sleep. Fumbling with his key, numb fingers refusing to co-operate with his brain, he pops the door open and steps in cautiously. The floor lamp is still on and radiating heat when Mark heads over to switch it off. The grey iPhone is resting in the crease of the sofa, red battery flashing at the brunet when he taps the home button, which allows him to relax slightly. He probably forgot to plug it in, he thinks, as he makes his way down the hallway to his room. On the way there, he passes Simon’s room, door slightly ajar and a sliver of light spilling over into the dim hall. Mark knocks lightly then sighs and tip toes into the room, intending to shut the light off. 

 

Simon’s flat on the bed, splayed out as usual, still wearing the same clothes as in the morning. Rolling his eyes affectionately, Mark leans over to the bedside table and stops dead in his tracks, realising he hasn’t seen any movement or breathing since he stepped in. A wave of nausea and panic washes over him and he inhales sharply, body flooding with adrenaline. Migraine forgotten, Mark steps closer to his friend, immediately spotting the bandage tightly wrapped around Simon’s upper arm. His voice sounds alien to him as he desperately repeats Simon’s name, shaking him in an attempt to wake him. With no response, Mark grips his limp hand, ripping off the tourniquet, holding his own rapid breath as he palpates the veins. After an agonisingly long wait, he feels it. A tiny flutter. With a shaky exhale, he grabs his phone and groans in frustration, seeing the mocking red battery symbol flash at him. Fuck. He shakily plugs it in, dropping it onto the floor as he runs to the bathroom, rooting through the medicine cabinet, hoping to find something, anything, to make Simon’s heart and lungs start doing their jobs. Miraculously, he finds it. A single, pre-filled syringe of Narcan. He wonders briefly why Simon still has a dose of Narcan in his bathroom but decides not to dwell on it. With a hard bite of his lip, he digs further, hoping he missed just one, singular needle. No luck. Swearing, he grabs a sterilising wipe and rushes back into Simon’s room, feeling around on the dark carpet for the abandoned needle. He pricks his finger on it but doesn’t even register the pain, harshly pulling it off the syringe as he tears into the wipe with his teeth, giving it a quick wipe before attaching it onto the Narcan syringe, slapping Simon’s hand with his fingers to bring up the vein. With trembling hands, he manages to hit the vein on the first try, wasting no time in depressing the plunger as far as it would go. For a minute, nothing. Mark scarcely dares breathe. What if it’s not heroin he overdosed on? What if it’s too late? What if -

 

Simon sits up with a jarring cry, chest heaving as he swallows lungfuls of air, colour returning slowly to his blue tinted lips. Mark chokes out a relieved, dry sob and drops his head onto the bed, trying to settle his own breathing. Eventually, Simon falls back, breathing more normally though still heavily. Mark presses his fingers to his neck, feeling the rapid pulse. With a shaky, tearful laugh, he props Simon up on a mountain of pillows while he reaches for his phone, praying it charged enough to last a single phone call. Simon, seeing this, rolls over and knocks the device out of his friend’s hand, shaking his head in terror. 

“Simon, you need a hospital! I haven’t got more shots to give you and I don’t even know what you took!” Mark exclaims, moving to reach for the phone but something in Simon’s eyes makes him stop. The blond swallows thickly and grabs onto his friend’s wrist tightly with his clammy hands. 

“Morphine. One gram. There’s Narcan in the bottom drawer.” He glances at the chest of drawers across from the bed and looks back at Mark. “You can give me ten doses. They last an hour each. No hospital. Please.” 

“Si -”

“No. No hospital. No ambulance. Donna. She’ll find out.”

“Okay. Just relax. Breathe. Your lips are going blue again.” Simon lets go of his grip and focuses on breathing, feeling the blood start reaching his extremities again with a sharp sting. He barely winces, knowing he deserves the pain. “What the hell was that?” The blond doesn’t reply, shutting his eyes tightly. “Answer me! You almost fucking died!” Mark explodes, fear and grief turning into fury. 

“Would that really have been so bad?!” The younger man chokes out, tugging at his hair.

“Stop acting like a moody teenager! What the hell! Stop being so selfish for one minute. What the fuck would your family do without you? What about Eilidh? What about  _ me _ ?!”

Simon barks out a harsh laugh and shoots Mark a withering glare. “Stop pretending you give a fuck.” Mark, taken aback, opens his mouth to speak but no words come out. “You’re just - you managed twenty years without so much as a postcard to let me know you’re alive. Why the fuck would I believe that you suddenly give a rat’s ass about me now?!”

“I saved your fucking life!” Mark yells back, eyes burning with unshed tears. Simon huffs and rolls his eyes. 

“Right. Thanks. Now I can continue being miserable in my empty meaningless life.”

“What the hell happened?! I thought we were okay! I apologised. So many times. Do you know how much it pained me to not talk to you for twenty years?!”

“Sure.”

“What did I do?! Just last night, we were laughing, drinking and having fun like we used to. You’re the one who suggested I move in with you. You begged me to come to Glasgow with you. Why won’t you just talk to me?! What is it that I’ve done?!”

Simon bites his lip hard and shakes his head, turning his gaze away. “You don’t wanna know.”

“Right, I asked cause I don’t want to know. Fucking stop being like this!” Mark barks, bringing his fist onto the bedside table in a sudden fit of overwhelming frustration. When Simon doesn’t respond, he shakes his head and rubs his palm over his face, feeling the salty tears he hadn’t known were falling. Simon hears the subtle, choked sob and feels his own chest tighten, unable to bear looking at the sorrow in Mark’s features any longer. He reaches over and brushes his fingers against his friend’s jawline. When their eyes meet, there is only one thing he can do. 

 

Their lips meet, frustration, anger and regret spilling over into the kiss, making it almost painful. Simon tastes the salt of Mark’s tears and his own blood on his tongue and runs his hands into Mark’s hair, needing to be as close to him as possible. For one, single, perfect moment, Mark’s lips move in sync to Simon’s, before pulling away suddenly, a bewildered expression on the brunet’s face. “Si, don’t -” He breathes in shakily and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, shaking his head. “You don’t know what you’re feeling right now. You couldn’t possibly.”

“I-”

“Just… get some rest.” Mark clears his throat and stands, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He heads for the door, turning around to see Simon staring right through him. Unable to look, he lowers his gaze. "I'll- I'll check in on you every half hour or so." Without waiting for a response, he steps out and leaves the door slightly ajar, walking into the kitchen and leaning against the counter, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion. As he does so, he sees Simon's laptop open on the table, a blinking USB in the drive. Lips still tingling, heart still pounding, the need for an explanation overwhelms him. Taking a seat in front of the device, he hovers his hand over the keyboard and sighs, waking up the screen. A still from the video still on screen flashes at him and he recognises it as being that of the pub.  

 

He clicks play. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Insert generic excuse for delay here.] 
> 
> No, but in all seriousness, I do apologise. My main excuse is the utter lack of motivation due to a bunch of stuff, some good, some bad. Secondary excuse is the unbelievably cringy borderline explicit scene in this chapter. Blame Megan, not me. And sorry if it's cringy and makes no sense, but I have as much experience in intimacy as a ferret has in astrophysics.
> 
> So. Sorry.
> 
> I am. 
> 
> Honest.

Mark remembers their first hit vividly. 

 

He remembers how sweaty his hands were, handing his share of the money to Simon. He remembers Simon’s calm, cool, collected stance as one hand reached for the bag while the other one, hidden behind his back, was picking at hangnails. He remembers the hardness of cement as they slouched against a wall, fumbling with his lighter, unable to hold the flame steadily under the spoon. He remembers the look in Simon’s eyes as he helped Mark tie his belt around his arm. He remembers the sharp ache of the needle piercing his skin, a red flash appearing within the brown liquid. He remembers the texture of the plunger beneath the pad of his thumb. He remembers the sudden rush of euphoria, entire body losing connection to his brain, the only thing tethering him to reality being his best friend leaning against him, a lazy smirk on his lips. 

 

Most of all, however, he remembers kissing Simon, the moment the drugs hit his brain, all neurons firing at the same time, a rush like he'd never felt before, chest tightening, heart pounding like he'd just ran a marathon, before it all melted away, leaving behind a heavenly numbness, head lolling to the side as his eyes tracked across his best friend's face, seeing half lidded eyes, parted lips, an indescribably beautiful expression upon his sharp features. A rush like that, even the purest heroin can never bring. 

 

***  


 

Mark leans back in his seat, eyes falling on the pack of cigarettes nearby. As he slides one out of the carton, he rubs his mouth thoughtfully, hearing his own erratic heartbeat thrumming in his ears. His mind is racing yet at the same time completely still, unable to focus on a singular thought. A heavy sigh escapes his lips as he lights the cigarette, crossing his arms. Suddenly, he feels cold as he remembers, remembers it all. The uncontrollable urge to touch Simon, to kiss him, to  _ fuck him _ . If Simon hadn’t stopped Mark, would they have crossed a boundary there’s no coming back from? Worse, would Mark not remember that, either? Biting his lip, he rewinds the footage and watches it once more, unable to ignore the heat rushing to his abdomen as he considers what might’ve been, a stab of guilt replacing it almost instantly. Mark was obviously the one initiating it at the pub. With the stress Simon’s under, it wouldn’t be unreasonable to gather that he is desperate for physical contact, for human connection, but not necessarily with Mark. The brunet finds himself exhaling in disappointed relief. They both would’ve regretted it, surely, and there would be no going back. Their already strained friendship would shatter irreparably. A hoarse shout snaps him out of the train of thought and, adrenaline kicking in once more, he rushes to his friend’s room, shoving the door open to see the blond on the ground, jaw set as he grips his leg tenderly, short, pained gasps escaping his lips. 

“What's wrong?!” 

“Aw, shit,” Simon hisses through gritted teeth, “I'm fine, just - I stood up too quickly and got dizzy. Landed wrong, hit my hip off the edge of the bed. Fuck, that's gonna leave a bruise.” 

Mark exhales, rubbing his temples. “The hell were you doing? You should've yelled for me.” 

“Mark, for fuck’s sake, I'm a forty four year old man, I can get a glass of water on my own.” 

“Evidently.” Mark mumbles and sighs heavily. “I'll get you your water before you break a bone.” 

“Get my laptop while you're at it.” 

"What's so important on your laptop, eh?" Mark asks nonchalantly, earning himself a shrug from Simon. With a slight murmur of acknowledgement, he fetches the items and prays that Simon doesn't realise he watched the video. He knows he'll have to bring it up eventually, especially considering the desperate way Simon kissed him just moments before. But not now. Not with Simon on the brink of repeated overdose. Mark can only imagine two ways this conversation could go and neither of them seems like a good outcome at that moment - either they fuck or they fight. Now that the adrenaline has worn off, Mark feels his headache returning, throbbing and stabbing pain shooting through his eyes. He clears his throat and steps into the darkened room, handing the glass to his friend as he sets the laptop on the bed beside him. "You should try to sleep. I'll give you a shot every hour, no matter what. And I don't care what you say, if you don't improve after the next couple, I'm calling an ambulance." 

"Oh, stop fussing. This isn't the first time I've OD'd." Simon scoffs and immediately wants to kick himself for it, seeing the look of pain on Mark's face.

"It damn better be the last." Mark says finally, voice rough and low, threatening yet, and Simon hates himself for thinking it, also incredibly sexy. He nods slightly and Mark mirrors the movement, pursing his lips. God, what Simon wouldn't do to kiss him properly, triggered by nothing but mutual attraction, affection, not alcohol or a near death experience. He looks away, knowing how his body will react if that train of thought isn't halted immediately. "You sure it's a good idea for me to sleep, Nurse Renton?" 

"Doctor Renton. Please, have some respect." Mark bites back, a poorly concealed grin playing at his lips. "And I'll be waking you to jab a needle into your arm every hour anyway." 

"Oh, joy." Simon murmurs, desperately ignoring the sudden rush of heat in his abdomen when he thinks about Mark, in a lab coat.  _ Just _ a lab coat. Fuck's sake. "See you in an hour, then." He sighs, closing his eyes in a desperate attempt at feigned sleep. He hears Mark murmur in affirmation, then feels his hand on his shoulder. The touch feels red hot even through layers of clothes. Thankfully, for Simon's dignity, he steps out, allowing the blond to exhale a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.

Mark shuts the door gently and leans against it, rubbing his face helplessly. Glancing at the large clock hanging in the hall, he makes a mental note of the time and shakes his head in a futile attempt to wake himself up. Flicking the kettle on, he doubles over and leans against the counter, dropping his head onto the cool marble. The temperature eases his headache ever so slightly and he sighs in relief. As the kettle bubbles quietly in the background, his thoughts wander, what ifs flooding his mind.  _ What if we had slept together? What if we hadn’t been drinking? What if… what if I hadn’t run away? Would we be a… a thing? Would I ever have kicked the habit? Would we have ended up like Tommy?  _ The kettle clicks off and he absentmindedly overfills a cup, swearing when hot water splashes him. With an exhausted sigh, he brings the mug to the sofa, eyes staring yet unseeing as the TV plays irrelevant infomercials.  Eventually, he glances up and realises it’s been over an hour. Padding into the room, Mark gently shakes Simon’s shoulder to wake him. The blond grumbles and rolls over onto his arm, eyes screwed shut at the sudden influx of light in the room. 

"Either you give me your forearm or I stick you in the bicep." Mark threatens and Simon opens one eye, watching him cross his arms. 

"You wouldn't." His voice is slightly slurred but Mark doesn't want to blame it on sleep. "I would and I'm going to if you don't give me your arm." 

"Jesus, your bedside manner is shit." Simon grumbles, extending his arm towards his friend. Not bothering with a response, Mark wastes no time in inserting the needle into Simon's vein, although he does wince visibly when the younger man draws in a sharp breath. "Sorry. How are you feeling?" 

"Fine. Been better." The blond shrugs and sighs. "No, I'm lying. I feel like shit." 

"Yeah." Mark hums, sitting down beside his friend. He stares at the door, his back facing Simon as he considers his next words. He can't wait any longer. "I, uh. I saw it. The video." Simon's heart stops, all blood draining from his face. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Fuck. He considers his options for suicide. There's the window. Messy and knowing his luck he'd just break his spine and be forced to live with this humiliation forever. Or the razor in the bathroom... Clean cut to the jugular, five minute affair. Also messy, but he’s less likely to survive and the mess wouldn’t be his problem anyway. Drugs, well. Easy but would take a while especially with Mark on high alert. Fuck. So dying is out. He elects to instead stay silent and let Mark continue. If all else fails he can just suffocate himself with a pillow, right? Fuck. "I, er... Jesus." Mark barks out a laugh and shakes his head. "Obviously, we'd both had too much to drink. But... It's undeniable that I also kissed back tonight. And it's undeniable that I've been wanting to do that for a while. More than that, actually." What. The Fuck. “But I - I mean, Ryan - I -” 

"Just spit it out, Mark, whatever it is you're going to say." Simon snaps, narrowing his eyes. 

Mark turns to face him and inhales deeply. "Tell me honestly. Do you feel this - this weird fucking tension between us? Or is it me being a total dumbass?" 

"Can I say both?" Simon grumbles, rolling his eyes. "Christ, Mark. Yeah, I feel it. And last night I wanted nothing more than to fuck you on that table, everything else be damned, but..." Mark flushes at the crass statement and Simon physically snaps his mouth shut, unable to believe that he just said it. Then, Mark sighs. "I think - I think we need to talk. Properly. When we're both sober. Completely sober."

“Right.”

“Right.” Mark clears his throat, desperate to get out of the awkward silence that settles between them. “I’ll, er, be back in an hour.” 

“Fine.” The ice in Simon’s voice takes Mark by surprise but he knows better than to comment, choosing instead to leave for the living room before he is annihilated by Simon’s glare. He shuts the door and throws himself onto the sofa, whispering every profanity he can think of. None of them seem to fit the fucked-upness of the situation. His eyelids grow steadily heavier and he decides to get some sleep, to pass the time if nothing else. He takes off his t-shirt, feeling the unpleasant cold dampness from getting splashed and lets his eyes slide shut, barely managing to set an alarm on his phone before he loses consciousness. 

***

The alarm shrills in the silent apartment and Mark sits up with a sharp inhale, adrenaline flooding his senses. It takes him a good while to calm his breathing enough to be able to stand up. Rubbing his eyes, he stumbles to the blond’s room, surprised to see him wide awake and upright on his bed. 

“This is ridiculous,” Simon grumbles. Mark tenses his jaw and readies the medication. 

“Fuck you, you knew this was a consequence of you being a total idiot.” 

"I meant you coming in half naked." Mark gapes then squares his jaw, posture suddenly self conscious and annoyed. "Christ, if you're gonna come in looking this miserable I might as well just take them all myself." 

"Yeah. Right. Can you be trusted to do that?"

"Why are you suddenly so bitchy?" Simon asks, fuming, ripping the syringe out of Mark's hand. He jabs himself in the general area of the elbow crease and discards the empty syringe, haphazardly throwing it in the direction of the bin. "What the fuck, seriously." 

"Just shut up, Simon." Mark growls, clenching his fists. 

"What're you gonna do, hm? Punch me? C'mon, have a go at me if it makes you feel better. Well?" Simon taunts, standing to his full height. When Mark simply stands, fuming, staring at the floor, he huffs out a laugh, shaking his head in exaggerated disappointment. "Shame." 

Before he can say another word, Mark's grabbed onto his shirt pulling him closer so their faces are just millimeters apart. "I said,  _ shut _ .  _ up _ ." Then, with no warning, Mark closes the gap between them, kissing like he's been starved of it for years. Immediately understanding the situation, Simon grabs Mark's hips and pulls him even closer, their lips moving out of sync, both desperate to get as close as physically possible. In one swift movement, the brunet is shoved onto the bed, Simon straddling him, breaking the kiss for less than a second, resuming it with much more control and pure, animalistic need. Mark raises his hands to run his fingers through Simon’s hair, a surprised yelp escaping his lips when his arms are pinned to the bed, a smirk on the blond’s lips. “Nu-uh. I don't think so.” 

“Si-” 

“Shh.” Simon silences Mark by connecting their lips once more, tongue darting out. Mark grants him access instantly, breath hitching in his throat as his senses are overwhelmed by everything distinctly  _ Simon _ , the faint smell of hair gel, mixed with tobacco and menthol, the taste of mint and a hint of tea, the texture of his stubble on his own. The urge to touch him overwhelms Mark and he bucks his hips, wishing he could use his hands. Simon grunts softly and the brunet changes his mind, vowing to find as many ways to throw Simon off guard without the use of his arms. They break apart reluctantly, Simon’s head bowing as he moves lower, nipping at Mark’s collarbone. He wants to tell him to stop, that they can’t leave any evidence but forgets about his reservations when he feels his friend’s tongue running along the fresh bruise. Throwing his head back, he groans as Simon moves further south, placing soft, teasing kisses along the length of his toned torso. 

“Jesus-”

“Relax.” Simon murmurs, feeling the muscles in Mark’s abdomen tense as he licks along his waistband, biting down on the elastic and pulling back, allowing it to snap against bare skin. Mark arches his back, clenching his fists so tightly, his nails leave crescent shaped dents in the flesh. With a smug grin, Simon moves back, peppering Mark’s jawline with kisses as his fingers nimbly unzip the brunet’s jeans. Hands freed, Mark gets to work on Simon’s buttons, tugging at the shirt impatiently until it pops open, allowing it to be discarded onto the floor. The second their chests make contact, Simon flinches back as though burned. Mark props himself up on his elbows, eyes widening in concern. “What? What is it? Is it the drugs-?”

“No.” Simon shakes his head, swallowing thickly. “No, I just - I need to be sure you -”

“More than anything.” Mark affirms, reading between the lines. In order to prove his point, he connects their lips once more, briefly, before pulling back. A smirk ghosts over Simon’s lips and he nods. 

“Well. I’ve waited damn long enough, dealt with you being a flirt for  _ far  _ too long. Time to play by my rules now.” With that, Mark’s remaining clothes are harshly tugged off and the blond runs his tongue along the length of Mark’s fully erect shaft, eliciting a ragged breath and a low groan from the older man. Deliberately taking his time, Simon repeats the movement, thoroughly enjoying the gasping moans escaping Mark’s lips. Slowly, he relaxes his throat and sucks in his cheeks, doing his best to hide the fact that teasing Mark is making him go crazy too. 

“Jesus Christ, Simon.” He gasps out, chest heaving, hand snaking into Simon’s hair and tugging gently, to which the blond simply hums, hoping Mark will get the hint. He seems to, or is just lost in the throes of pleasure, as his grip suddenly tightens and a sharp pain shoots through Simon’s scalp. He groans, resulting in a shudder from Mark, the vibration making electricity rush through his body. He stutters over Simon’s name, mumbling the first syllable over and over. A strange tightness forms in Simon’s chest as he realises he’s the reason Mark’s coming undone because of him, it’s  _ his  _ name that he’s moaning. He throws the feeling into a dark corner of his mind, hopefully never to be considered again. “S-Si,” Mark gasps, lifting his head slightly. The blond looks up at him through a thick veil of eyelashes and the brunet averts his gaze, biting down on his lip. “I- if you don’t stop, I’m gonna-.” He chuckles self-consciously and rubs a hand over his face. Simon hums in acknowledgment yet does nothing to stop. Mark tilts his head back once more as his friend shows off his impressively absent gag reflex. “Si. Si, please.” 

“Hm?” Simon arches an eyebrow, demonstrating the agility of his tongue. He thinks briefly that if he ever has an opportunity to do this again, he must buy a box of cherries and truly show Mark what it is that made him so popular with men and women alike. 

“I want you, I- I-” Simon shrugs, waiting for Mark to say what he so clearly cannot bring himself to. “I  _ need  _ you to - to  _ fuck me _ . I can’t - I can’t wait any longer, please -” Finally.

Slowly, Simon eases himself off Mark who shivers and covers his face with his hands. 

“Just think of dead puppies.”

“Stop.” Mark mumbles, giggling. Simon snorts and opens the drawer in the bedside table. His face falls. “What?”

“God damn it.” He hisses, running a hand through his hair. “Shit, I’m such a fucking idiot.” An embarrassed chuckle escapes his lips as he shakes the empty box at Mark, who simply shrugs, crawling over to kiss the blond once more. 

“I don’t care if you don’t. Presumably, you’re clean. I am.”

“Obviously!” Simon exclaims indignantly, “there’s a reason this box is empty.”

“If you… well, if it bothers you, I have a few in my -”

“They latex?”

“Yeah? You allergic?” Simon nods and exhales angrily, pressing the balls of his thumbs to his eyes. “Well, I mean, I don’t mind.” 

“You sure?”

“Bloody hell, Simon, fuck me now or we’re gonna have a drastic role reversal.” Mark growls, voice low and gravelly. 

“God, you’re amazing.” Simon grins, pressing a light kiss to the darkening bruise on the other man’s collarbone. “Have I ever told you that?” Mark grins, allowing himself to be pushed forward onto the mound of pillows, wrapping his arms around one, losing himself to the sensation of featherlight kisses trailing down his spine, brain far too busy being flooded with oxytocin to even consider the morality of what he's doing. 

 

***

 

Simon opens his eyes slowly, unwilling to break the blissful state of semi consciousness, the serene sound of rain beating down on the roof gently worming its way into his drowsy mind. He rolls over lazily, expecting to find Mark, but the bed is cold and empty. Smile falling, he sits up and takes in the state of the room. Mark's clothes are gone, Simon's folded neatly on the chest of drawers. There is a sticky note on the window and he squints, trying to read it. When that doesn't work, he throws on a pair of joggers and shuffles over to the bright yellow scrap, taking it off the glass.

_ At work. Back at 6. Be here - we have to talk. _

A bitter feeling slowly creeps into his mind as he shallows thickly, glancing toward the door. He expected to wake up next to Mark, to be able to kiss him, hold him, hell, just see him, bleary eyed, hair mussed, a slight smile on his face. Instead, he got a cold note. A sense of dread hits him suddenly and he rushes out of the room, storming into Mark's, noting with unspeakable relief that all his things are still there, complete with the book and glasses on the bedside table. Sighing, he steps back out and into the kitchen, naively hoping that maybe Mark didn't get into work after all. It's as empty as the rest of the flat and he purses his lips, suddenly not knowing what to do with himself.

Eventually, he decides a shower is a good place to start. He rubs his face absentmindedly as he heads for the bathroom and adds shaving to his to-do list. At least it's something to keep occupied with, he thinks, and turns the water on, not bothering to wait till it heats up. He floats around the flat aimlessly, unable to focus on anything for long enough to stop the rampant thoughts in his head. What if Mark decided to leave again? What if he hated it? What if he didn't? What if he - The door opens and Mark steps in, seeing Simon mid pace, a mug of tea in his hand. He nods by way of greeting and drops his briefcase at the door, slipping his shoes off as he heads towards his bedroom wordlessly. The door shuts loudly and Simon winces at the sound, grip on mug handle tightening. What, he thinks, is this what it's going to be now? His legs move of their own accord, taking him to the door. He raises a fist to bang on the door, then lowers it, clenching it tighter instead. 

“Mark.” He calls, clearing his throat. “Is this us now? Not even a ‘hi'? Hell, not even a ‘fuck you’?” 

“Hi. Fuck you. Better?” Mark's voice sounds muffled toward the end of his sentence and Simon hears the faint rustle of fabric. “Do you mind? It's been a  _ long fucking day _ .” 

“Yeah, I do mind.” The blond snaps. “Make up your damn mind, Mark. I'm fine with you being a child and ignoring me but at least be consistent. Asshole.” He steps away from the door without hesitation, any anxiety now replaced by irritation. Simon paces into the kitchen and puts his mug down forcefully onto the marble, a sharp bang resonating in the room. The bedroom door squeaks open and Simon closes his eyes, mentally convincing himself to calm down before he injures the older man. 

“You're on edge. Relax." Mark remarks sarcastically, falling onto the sofa. Simon throws him a glare, crossing his arms. Even through his anger, he notices the way Mark’s t-shirt is taut across his chest and feels heat rush up to his face. 

"Oh, sorry, I should be just as relaxed as you so clearly are. My bad.”  

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm fine." Mark snaps, then shrugs. "Far as I'm concerned, there's nothing to talk about.There was sexual tension, we slept together, there's no more sexual tension. Things can go back to being the brand of fucked up they were before this." Simon feels his heart squeeze painfully, swallowing thickly yet desperately hoping Mark hasn't noticed. Right. So that's that then. "Yes." Mark affirms and Simon realises he said it out loud. Clearing his throat angrily, he sits on the raised platform in front of Mark and runs a hand through his hair. 

"And... And Ryan? Does he know?" 

"He doesn't need to. Not that it matters, we aren't exclusive yet." Mark snaps, staring into the black TV screen, brows knitted. "Anyway, what's it to you?" 

"Okay, what is your problem?!" Simon exclaims, rising to his feet. "Last night, exactly the same. This weird, fucking uncalled for hostility. What have I done, Mark? Honestly." Mark tenses his jaw and refuses to look at his friend who laughs harshly, throwing his hands up in the air. Clearly, this discussion is pointless. He strides to the coat hanger in the hall, shrugging on his dark peacoat. He pats himself down, noting the presence of his phone and keys but not cigarettes. A quick trip to his room sees him stuffing the box into his pocket as one unlit cigarette hangs from his lips. Mark feels a flash of electricity run down his spine at the sight and he averts his gaze.  

"Where are you going?"

“Out.” Simon barks, lighting the cigarette and taking a deep drag. Without another word, he’s gone, slamming the door as he leaves. With a frustrated groan, Mark falls back and covers his face with his hands, at a complete loss. What the hell is he supposed to do now?

***

Simon bangs on the door to Diane's flat with his fist, leaning on the wall next to it, face propped on his arm. Eventually, after what seems like forever, she opens the door, hair tied up and face shimmering. She's wearing capri leggings and a tank top and Simon figures she's just gotten off the treadmill. The sheer association of running with Mark makes him want to rip his already thinning and damaged hair out. 

"Well. Don't you look chipper?" She snipes, opening the door wider to let her friend in. He shuffles in sullenly, dropping onto the armchair in the sitting room and silently chewing on his nail, staring into space. Diane sighs, leaving him alone in the room while she heads to her bedroom, throwing on a clean hoodie and grabbing her water bottle. With a small sigh, she sits on the sofa next to Simon and waits for him to speak, knowing that if she pushes him, he'll just snap at her.

"We - we slept together. Last night." He mumbles eventually, shooting a furtive glance at Diane, who widens her eyes. "And now he's being really bitchy about it and I can't be around him for another second because I might actually fucking scream. Or kick his ass. Or - well." He clears his throat and shrugs, looking up to the ceiling.

“I - er. Wow. Okay… I didn’t think you’d actually go and do it, after all your denying and self pity.” 

Simon narrows his eyes at her and purses his lips. “He’s the one who threw himself at me. And then he left in the morning leaving a "we need to talk" note. And then he came home and didn't even acknowledge my presence. No greeting, not even a glare. Like I didn't exist. And then he just said that the tension was resolved so it's sorted and let's forget it, basically. He got all snippy when I asked if Ryan knew and just - fuck knows what his problem is but... He's the one who kissed me last night. He's the one who  _ literally begged me to fuck him _ \- so why's he acting like I made him do something he completely regrets? I mean, shit." Simon laughs dryly and sighs in frustration, shaking his head. 

Diane chuckles, shaking her head. “This is Mark Renton we’re talking about. He’s got the emotional intelligence of a teenage boy. Expecting anything else is setting yourself up for constant disappointment.” 

Simon opens his mouth to argue, then snaps it shut. She's right, as usual. It's infuriating yet he keeps coming back for her advice. Hm. "Yeah, well. At least he came home, eh? Could've gone to fucking Norway this time. Or maybe Austria? Fuck." 

Diane exhales heavily and rubs her forehead. "Why are you such girls?" 

"Excuse me?" Simon barks, incredulous. "I have evidence that suggests otherwise, mate, I can show -" 

"Oh, shut up. You know what I meant. You're both so stupid. Why can't you just talk like two mature adults?" 

"Because out of our entire group of 'friends', you're the only one who's actually an adult. You went to college and everything." Simon mocks, rolling his eyes. "The worst part is how disappointed I was this morning, waking up alone. I mean, fuck, I don't think I've ever been on the receiving end of a fuck and chuck." 

"I'm sure all the women you've done that to would be glad you're getting a taste of your own medicine." Diane snipes. "He's not actually chucked you, though, has he?"

"Would've been easier if he had, I think." "Hold on. What actually happened? How did you end up bedding Renton, cause you haven't told me." 

"You want all the gory details?" Simon snarks and Diane narrows her eyes, leaning forward. “Right. Well. He found me overdosing on morphine -” 

“You  _ what?!” _ Diane snaps, scoffing when Simon waves a dismissive hand at her. 

“Whatever. I'm irresponsible, useless, weak willed, yada yada yada. I've had a lecture from him already, save your breath.  _ Anyway,  _ he thought it was because of him, the selfish motherfucker. He started rambling on about how life is worth living and he needs me, blah blah fucking blah. I couldn't stand him whining at me anymore so I - I kissed him. I know, I know, I should've and could've just punched him but… well. He kissed back. And then acted like I was out of my mind and couldn't think straight - shut up - and he just - argh, he was so infuriating, acting like he hated me one minute, throwing himself at me the next. I don't know what happened, really. It's just - God, it's razor sharp and yet a total blur.” 

"Please tell me you thought to use protection, even when you were strung out." Diane interrupts, an unpleasant thought worming its way into her head. Simon purses his lips, shaking his head stiffly. "Oh, God, Simon! You're an IV drug user,  _ and  _ a cocaine addict. Oh, good God, Si-” 

"I wanted to! But we - I hadn't realised I didn't have anything left and he told me he didn't give a fuck and I just - anyway, what are you implying?! I do _not_ have hep c and I _definitely_ _don't have HIV_!" 

"I'm so glad you're not a woman. You'd be pregnant all the damn time." 

"Oh, piss off, yeah?" Simon snaps, throwing his hands up in the air. "Listen, I came here so you could help me out, not mock me."

"Are those mutually exclusive?" She asks, shrugging. "I'm listening to you bitch and moan, but I'm not sure what you want me to do. How can I help?"

“Fuck, I don't bloody know!”

“I know what  _ could _ help…”

"Is it talking to Mark like a normal person?" Simon asks miserably and Diane flashes a 100 watt grin. 

"Knew you'd understand. Go on, get." 

"Oh, no, please, Di - I can't go back tonight." He pleads and Diane's smile falls. "Can't I crash here? I'll be gone by morning." "Well, I - you know I'd say yes, but... Erm." The tips of her ears go pink and Simon smirks. 

"Ooh. I see. Okay. Well, no worries, the pool table is quite comf -" He cuts himself off sharply, clearing his throat. "I'll manage." As he turns to leave, he lights a cigarette to which Diane makes a face. “What?”

“You know, you shouldn’t be smoking, what with Eilidh and all. That’s putting aside your own health, which I know you don’t care about.” 

“Eh, it’s fine. Of all my addictions and vices, I reckon smoking is the least significant of all. Don’t you?” With that, he turns to leave, taking a deliberately deep drag as he turns the corner and disappears from view. Still, as he walks along the footpath, the cigarette in his mouth begins to feel nauseating and he crushes it with his heel, an unreadable expression clouding his sharp features as his mind drifts, legs moving on autopilot. 

 

***

“Mark, what’s going on? You’ve disappeared on me a few times now and I - I’m not sure what to think.” Ryan’s voice breaks slightly toward the end of the sentence and Mark cringes, rubbing his forehead with his free hand as the other grips the phone tightly. 

“I  _ am  _ sorry, Ry, I just - I-” 

Ryan sighs slightly on the other end and clears his throat before he speaks once again. “Look, if it’s something I’m doing, or not doing…”

“No, I promise it’s nothing to do with you. I’m sorry.”

“You say that but… if you don’t want this to continue then just tell me. I can take it. It’ll certainly feel better than this uncertainty.”

“That’s not it at all, no!” Mark exclaims, shaking his head despite the other man not being able to see. “No, I - I haven’t got a viable excuse but I can promise that I do want this to develop, I do want to see what happens. So… if you’re willing to give me a chance to prove that… well, I’d be grateful.”

“Fine, but only because you’re so irresistible.” Ryan says, a lighter tone now present in his voice. Mark grins and nods slightly. “Speaking of…”

The brunet immediately understands the subtext when Ryan trails off and he wastes no time in agreeing. “Yep. Be there ASAP.” 

“Okay. No more disappearing on me, yeah?” With a smile, Mark terminates the call. Feeling much better about himself, he quickly shrugs on his jacket and steps out the door, running down the steps as he hails a cab, thoughts far more positive than they had been just moments before.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone catch my blatant quote from T2 somewhere in here? Lel.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My God, guys!
> 
> How long has it been? (Too long, Megan kept nagging, but without it, I never would've finished it).
> 
> I am really sorry for the wait. This chapter is extra long to make up for it, but I think it's crap anyway so I am sorry for that too. 
> 
> Anyhow!
> 
> Enjoy this mess.

Ryan throws the door open as soon as Mark presses the doorbell, as though he’d been waiting. Before the brunet can say anything, the older blond has pulled him inside, gripping his wrist painfully tightly. 

“Ow, Ryan -” Mark begins but is cut off by the air being forcefully expelled from his lungs as Ryan shoves him towards the wall. He attempts to wrestle himself out of the vice like grip, to no avail. “Hey! Get off me! What the fuck -”

“Do you care about this working out?” Ryan hisses, tightening his hold on Mark’s wrists until his knuckles drain of blood. 

“Wh- Obviously I do!” Mark exclaims, fruitlessly struggling against the much stronger man in front of him. 

“Prove it.” 

“How?!” Mark yells, feeling his fingers go numb. “Jesus, Ryan - let go of me!”

“Not until you prove it.” Ryan snaps, tensing his jaw.

“Wh - what?” The brunet stammers, head reeling. “H- how do I  -”

“Move in with me. I don’t want you living with another guy if we’re together.” The blond barks, watching Mark with steely eyes. 

“I’m not doing that. Let go of me.  _ Right fucking now! _ ” Surprisingly, Ryan immediately drops Mark’s hands, an almost ashamed expression on his face. He goes to touch Mark, who leans back as far as possible, grimacing when the blood starts flowing again. He hisses in pain slightly and Ryan gently lifts one hand, seeming genuinely shocked at the angry red blotches. 

“Sit. I’ll get you some ice for that.” He murmurs, planting a gentle kiss on the brunet’s temple as he heads for the kitchen. Mark shakily makes his way to the sofa, leaning against it but refusing to sit, adrenaline rushing through his body. He hears the freezer open, then shut, as Ryan makes his way back with a bag of crushed ice in hand. As soon as he reaches out to place it on Mark’s wrist, the brunet steps back, jaw set. 

“Don’t - don’t you fucking touch me.”

“Now, Mark…” Ryan murmurs, steely eyes locking onto Mark’s own. “I would watch my attitude if I were you. All I’m trying to do is help.”

“Help?! Are you serious?!” Mark laughs harshly, not allowing himself to be intimidated by the glare. Ryan sighs, looking like he is dealing with a petulant child rather than a grown man. It makes Mark’s blood boil and he clenches his fists, storming past Ryan to the front door, which he throws open, turning back to Ryan before leaving. “If you  _ ever  _ lay a finger on me, I swear to God, you’ll never see me again, and I mean it, Ryan. If this is a view into what a relationship with you would’ve been like, you may as well delete my number.” With that, he slams the door to the flat and stabs the lift button, tapping his foot impatiently as he waits for the doors to slide open, still seeing red. 

 

***

 

The walk does nothing to calm his outrage and by the time he reaches the door to the flat, he’s silently seething, a ticking time bomb, ready for the final trigger before he explodes. As the front door key grinds in the lock, he takes a deep breath, squaring his jaw. Another confrontation with Simon is the last thing he wants or needs and he silently prays that the older man had gone out. Wherever. To do whatever. Mark finds he doesn’t care, even though he knows in all likelihood that if Simon is not home, he’s scoring, sleeping with questionable people or provoking bar fights, almost like he’s  _ trying  _ to get himself killed. 

  
  


Unfortunately, Mark soon realises that today’s not his day when he’s hit by the acrid, burning smoke before he even sets foot inside. As he ventures further into the flat, the air stifling with a tinge of grey to it, he spots Simon, sitting on the edge of the sofa, elbows on his knees as he pours a shot. The sleeves of his navy button-down are rolled to his upper arms, biceps taut and defined through the strained fabric. A cigarette badly in need of ashing hangs from his slightly parted lips and his cheekbones seem even more prominent from the flush on his face. Mark’s gaze travels to his friend’s mussed hair, feeling his own cheeks redden as he remembers how similar the ash blond hair looked the morning after they - . He clears his throat in an attempt to chase those thoughts from his mind, yet he can’t completely rid himself of the underlying need to tear that damn shirt off him, despite loving the way it looks. Simon’s gaze lazily rolls over to him and the blond smirks, taking a deep drag of his cigarette before he speaks. “Trouble in paradise, huh, Rentboy?”

“Fuck off.” Mark responds, headed for the kitchen to open a window before they both suffocate, though Simon himself seems to not be bothered. "If you're gonna kill yourself, can you at least not do it in here?" 

"My house, my rules." Simon simply retorts, standing as he absent-mindedly scratches his forearm. "I was right, then." 

"What the fuck are you on about?" 

"Trouble in paradise. Right?" Simon asks, a shit eating grin on his lips as he sways slightly, leaning down to pick up his shot glass while holding his cigarette in the other. 

“Yes, you were fucking right. That make you happy?” Mark barks, throwing his hands into the air. Simon nods contemplatively, tilting his head back as he downs his shot, clearing his throat lightly. “It’s all your fucking fault, anyway, you self-righteous prick, so I’d wipe that smirk off my face if I were you.”

“Who are you, my mother?” Simon asks, stepping forward. “And exactly how is it my fault? You yourself don’t know, do you?” He takes another step toward Mark who grits his teeth, avoiding eye contact. “Thought so.” After several tense moments, Mark turns on his heel and storms into his room, slamming the door shut. Simon sighs and rubs his face with his hand, suddenly feeling all the alcohol pumping through his system. He goes to leave for his own bedroom when Mark’s door flies open once more and the brunet appears in front of Simon, grabbing the front of his shirt as he pulls him down, lips crashing together in a furious kiss before Mark pulls back, running a hand through his hair. 

“Damn you, Simon.” He whispers, their eyes meeting. Time seems to slow for Simon, and he notices all the tiny little details about Mark that he’s never seen before. Like the freckles scattered around his nose. So faint, you’d never make them out unless you tried. Or the flecks of grey in his pale not quite green, not quite blue eyes. He lets his gaze drop down to Mark’s lips and he feels himself lean forward, then stop. Something flashes in those eyes of his and the blond knows the moment is over. Mark bites his lip and turns, gone before Simon fully realises what’s happening. Heaving a deep sigh, Simon returns to the sofa and eyes the near empty bottle of scotch, before feeling all the blood in his body drop to his feet. 

 

The home visit.

 

_ Shit. _

 

He stands rapidly, instantly regretting the decision to do so when he feels his stomach cramp painfully, acid filling his mouth. Silently praying that he makes it, he rushes over to the sink and leans over it, gripping the counter tight as his entire body seizes up, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. Eyes squeezed shut, he blocks out all thoughts until finally, stomach now empty, he can straighten his back slightly, resting his head against the cool stainless steel tap. Taking a few ragged breaths, he rinses his mouth out and lets the water run as he gazes out the window blankly, throat burning and heart pounding. He can hear Mark’s bedroom door creak open but he barely acknowledges it, pulling at his hair until his follicles burn.  _ Shit shit shit shit shit shit. _

“Er… Si?” Mark speaks, clearing his throat as he does so. His forehead is creased with concern and it’s only then that Simon notices the crow’s feet around his eyes, the laugh lines etched into his cheeks. How could they have aged so much, so fast? He feels a void in his chest, wishing they could have gotten used to each other’s changing appearances, wishing 20 years hadn’t passed so damn fast. “You alright?”

The blond’s cracked lips begin to form the word yes, before he shakes his head. “Not even close.”

“How much have you drank? Jesus, you throwing up like that is not normal.” 

“I’m - it’s not that. Stop fussing, I - I need to breathe.” Simon swats away Mark’s hand, attempting to feel his pulse. Mark sighs slightly and drops his hands by his sides awkwardly, biting his cheek. “Shit. God, what am I  _ doing? _ ” 

“What happened?!” Mark snaps, anxiety lacing his words. Simon brings his thumb to his mouth and nibbles at the nail, taking a shallow breath. 

“I - The home visit’s tomorrow.”

“Oh, fuck.” Mark immediately clamps his hand over his mouth. “Shit, how could we have forgotten? This is so important, I - Right. Open that window, bloody hell, we’ll get poisoned. What were you even thinking, smoking in the flat like this?”

“Please, just shut the fuck up. Please." Simon groans, pressing his palms to his eyes. “I feel like I’m about to die.”

"Whose fault is that?" Mark asks sarcastically, hooking the balcony door onto its hinge. Simon throws him a glare which tells Mark he probably wouldn't like the answer to that question. "What time’s he coming tomorrow?" 

"I - I can't fucking remember. It's in my phone. I think. Hopefully." 

"Jesus, just get to bed. I'll figure it out. This place is a mess, so sleep now because we're gonna have an early start if you want to have any chance of passing the fucking inspec- " Mark cuts his monologue short when he notices Simon, who'd moved to sitting on the armrest of the sofa, has now slumped over, fast asleep. Rolling his eyes, the brunet throws a blanket over his friend and turns the lights off, passing by the wall calendar as he does so. By some divine miracle, Simon had noted the time and date for the inspection. 'Between 5 - 6:30 pm'. Great. He takes in the mess of the flat and groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. He's already dreading the morning.

 

***

 

Simon is brutally, in his mind, woken by Mark ripping his blanket off him, a determined expression on his face. Unable to formulate words, Simon just groans loudly, rolling onto his stomach and burying his face in the cushions. "Get up, damn it, we have  _ so much to do _ . Fuck. Go on, shower, eat something and take some painkillers." Simon grumbles, curling himself into a ball in order to preserve body heat. "Oi! Now, Simon!" 

"Fuck's sake, you're an evil bastard." The blond mumbles, sitting up blearily. Mark's suggestion of food isn't so stupid, he realises, as his stomach tightens with hunger.

“Quit being a baby. And please shower first, you smell like the pub.”

“It’s called the musk of a real man,” Simon sneers, stretching as he shuffles over to the doorway. “Not like you’d know anything about that.” 

Mark simply flips him off, rolling his eyes as he heads to the kitchen. “Keep at it and you’ll be making your own breakfast.” The blond pauses, eyeing his friend suspiciously. Mark arches an eyebrow, shrugging. “I’m making pancakes.”

Immediately, Simon’s eyes brighten slightly and his expression softens. Mark waves him off, shaking his head, though he can’t stop a wry smile from tugging at the corners of his lips. 

 

A suspiciously short, at least where Simon’s involved, shower later, he saunters into the kitchen, tight white v-neck t-shirt highlighting his lean frame, hair tousled from towel drying, wearing smoke grey slim fit joggers, looking like sex personified and  _ Jesus Christ, Mark needs some cold water poured on him right-the-fuck-now.  _

Despite looking a damn sight better than he did just moments before, the dark circles beneath his eyes and the ashen shade on his face make it obvious he’s hungover as all hell. Without looking too much at his friend, Mark pops two ibuprofens out onto the table next to where the blond has sat himself, sliding a coffee over as he does so. “Take.”

“Okay, Nurse Renton, whatever you say.” Simon drawls, eyeing the steaming mug. Mark scoffs. 

“We addressed that it’s  _ Doctor  _ to you, didn’t we?”

"Mm. So we did." Simon hums, dry swallowing the pills with a rapid backwards tilt of his head. "Which reminds me, actually. Isn't it against the code of ethics to sleep with a patient?"

Mark freezes briefly, eyes hardening, before he relaxes again, shrugging. "How many cigs did you smoke last night?" 

"Ehh... Like, two packs? Who cares?" 

"I saw at least three empty ones on the coffee table." Mark states, placing a plate in front of Simon. 

"So why ask me if you know?" Simon asks dryly, taking a sip of the scalding liquid without taking his eyes off Mark. The brunet shakes his head and bends down to the cupboard beneath the sink, rolling his eyes. "Do you have any cleaning supplies at all? How are we meant to clean the flat with Fairy liquid?" 

"I'm not completely brain-dead, Mark. You're just jumping at a chance to bitch, instead of looking elsewhere. Hot press in the bathroom." Mark purses his lips and nods apologetically, heading where he was directed as Simon watches him evenly. Mark ignoring Simon's reference to them sleeping together is interesting, if not exactly uplifting. He saw his reaction, of course, but he also saw how desperate he was to pretend he  _ didn't  _ react. He shrugs to himself, picking up his fork and slicing off a large chunk of fluffy pancake. He hears Mark clattering about in the press before he reappears, sighing in exasperation. Mouth full of food, Simon simply mumbles, to which Mark responds with yet another sigh.

“I’m going to the shops. You have a bottle of multi-surface cleaner and half a jug of bleach. Please tell me the hoover works, at least.”

Simon shrugs, swallowing. “Get bags, pretty sure it’s full.”

“What brand?”

“Mark.” Simon gives his friend a look and the brunet nods in acknowledgement. 

“Right. Well, I’ll be back soon.” With that, the front door shuts and Simon’s left in silence. He slides his phone out of his pocket, tapping out a text. 

_ /Thanks for not being around last night. Really could’ve used the support./ _

**_/I was on a date./_ ** She immediately shoots back, and the blond rolls his eyes. As he’s typing out a response, his phone buzzes again. **_/I can’t be around at your beck and call 24/7. Stop being so needy./_ ** She then seemingly decides a text argument with Simon is pointless and calls him instead. 

"I'm sorry, Di. Fuck, I have no idea what's going on, I swear. You know what he did yesterday?" 

"Oh, God. What now?" 

"He fucking kissed me. Out of his own will. He was stone cold sober, and he just - he just fucking came up to me and kissed me. Of course, he probably won't ever do that again considering the fact that I puked up everything I'd eaten all week almost immediately after."

"Okay, first of all, I did not need to know that." 

"You're welcome. I was drunk, okay? Although I felt drunker than I obviously was considering I can actually remember what happened."

“Wow, for once.” Her voice drips with sarcasm and Simon sighs. “You ever considered you might have a drinking problem?”

“What else am I supposed to do, when I have this whole custody shit going on, my best friend is busy and the guy I love is -” Simon snaps his mouth shut as the line goes silent. 

"You what?" She eventually utters, her voice eerily quiet. 

Simon clears his throat and finds that his own voice fails him. "Nothing." 

"Simon, you and I both know exactly what you just said." 

"So why'd you need me to repeat myself then?" The blond snaps and Diane sighs deeply. 

"Humour me." 

"No. It's pointless and not true anyway. Obviously I'm not entirely sober because that's insane." 

"We literally talked about this the other day." 

"Yeah, about me wanting to shag him, not me lo -" Simon pauses, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Not - not that." 

"Why is it so hard for you to say?" She asks and Simon can tell just from her tone of voice that the question is rhetorical. "Because you love him, that's why. You've always loved him and it's always been glaringly obvious." 

"Excuse me?" Simon splutters, grip on his phone tightening. “Glaringly?!”

“To anyone paying attention, yeah, it was.” The blond can hear her smile and he presses his lips into a line. Somehow, this isn’t exactly amusing to him. “Just say it. It’ll feel better.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

“Saaaaay it….” She coaxes, and damn it, no wonder she’s that good a lawyer. 

“Fine.” Simon barks, licking his lips. “I’m in love with that stupidly attractive son of a bitch Mark Renton.”

"There, was that so-" Diane continues but Simon's no longer focusing on her, instead realising that Mark has just entered the flat. His heart falters and he once again considers jumping off an overpass. "He's back, isn't he?" Her voice suddenly worms its way into his consciousness once more and he nods dumbly, clearing his throat when he realises she can't have seen that. 

"What's this about me?" Mark asks, placing a carrier bag on the table in front of Simon as he unpacks the various bottles. Simon creases his brows and feigns nonchalance as he shrugs. "What makes you think I'm talking about you?" 

"I heard 'Renton' pretty clearly, there. Who're you talking shit to?" A sly grin ghosts over Mark's lips and Simon shrugs again. 

"Hey, Mark!" Diane yells, loud enough to burst Simon's eardrums and definitely loud enough for him to hear. 

A look of confusion crosses his face. "What're you doing talking to her?" 

"Don't know why you're sounding so jealous, Rentboy. That ship sailed years ago." Simon hears the distinct beep of a terminated call and he drops his phone onto the table, scoffing. “Turns out, we have a lot more in common than just your sorry arse.”

"Exactly what have you been telling her?" Mark asks, a hint of annoyance in his voice. 

"None of your business." 

"It involves me, doesn't it? So I'd think it is my business.”

"You'd be wrong.”

“You better not have said a word about - well. You know.” 

“What is all this? Why do we need stainless steel cleaner?" Simon ignores Mark's comment, schooling his face into one of nonchalance. 

"Well, see, you have this thing called a hob and a sink, if you can believe it, under all this mess." 

"To quote you, it's not messy, it's masculine." 

"No, it's messy." Mark chides, gesturing at the pile of dishes in the sink. 

"I have better things to do than dishes." Simon grumbles, begrudgingly rolling his sleeves up as he stacks the dishes to one side, filling the sink with hot water and soap. 

“Yeah? Like what? Coke?” The brunet snarks and kneels beside the oven, peering into it with a dismayed expression. Sighing, he sprays the inside with a generous amount of oven cleaner and digs in the bag for a pair of rubber gloves as he glances at the clock. If they manage to clean the entire flat before the inspector comes, it'll be nothing short of a miracle. “Did you get dishwasher tablets?”

“Wow, you know what those are?”

“God, you're acting like I haven't a clue about any of this. I just don’t give a fuck - newsflash, when you're strung out and jonesing for a score, polishing the fucking taps isn't high on your list of priorities." Simon snaps, stacking the plates into the dishwasher as he tears open a tablet with his teeth. "Fucking arsehole." 

"Alright, calm down!" Mark exclaims, rolling his eyes. "Jesus." 

"Look, I'm just - I fucking can't believe the situation I'm in." Simon mumbles after a while, sighing. Mark nods silently, knowing that that was Simon’s attempt at an apology. “And you constantly insulting me is not helping.” 

“Ah, come on, you're not really hurt, are you?” 

“I am. And if you don't shut up, I'll hurt you.” Simon announces dramatically, pointing a chef's knife at Mark, who barks out a laugh. Simon smiles slightly, resuming loading the dishwasher. As soon as it kicks in, he slides over to the sound system and docks his iPhone, tapping the screen a few times. An organ glissando plays out and Mark audibly sighs. 

“Can you put something better on?” 

Simon’s finger freezes over the shuffle button, an incredulous look clouding his features. 

“Better? Like what? Oh, right, nothing, because nothing is better than Queen.” 

"Well, I meant maybe something other than A Kind of Magic. Not only is that their worst album -" An indignant gasp from Simon interrupts the brunet but he continues regardless - "But Who Wants to Live Forever is just poor taste. I'm still not quite over you almost fucking dying." Simon notices how Mark avoids eye contact as he says this and his own face flushes red. Of course. Without a word, he taps his phone screen a few times, simply deciding on an alternative 80s playlist, hoping the music can clear the sudden unbearably awkward silence. For once, something goes Simon’s way as he sees Mark’s posture change with the sudden rapid drum intro, a grin breaking out on his face with the guitar. The brunet stands, sliding over to the sink, filling a bucket with hot water. 

“Colour me your colour, baby, colour me your car,” Debbie croons, and Simon can see his friend’s lips moving along silently. As the song builds up, Mark begins shimmying along to the beat. 

"Are you alright there, Rentboy?" The blond asks, bemused, as he watches his friend hum along to the song, a faint smile on his lips. Instead of responding, Mark simply turns the volume up and dons a pair of rubber gloves, using a brush as an improvised microphone. "Oooookay then." Despite himself, the blond can't conceal his grin as he turns back to the sink, a sudden burst of energy running through his body. He'd never admit it, but he missed those sober moments with his best friend, just being stupid and not caring about their problems. 

 

An hour and a half later, as Simon finishes mopping the kitchen floor and begins to declutter the living room, Mark decides to put their bedsheets in the wash while there is still time for them to dry and be put away before the visit. As he lifts Simon's mattress to put on a fresh sheet, his eyes fall on a simple cardboard shoebox beneath the bed. Letting the mattress drop, Mark kneels on the floor and slides the box out, despite his better judgement. The edges are frayed and creased but the structure is sound. It seems as though it is only ever touched to be moved. Looking around his shoulder to make sure Simon is nowhere to be seen, he gently lifts the lid and sets it aside, taking in the contents. Breath catching in his throat, he brushes his fingers over a tiny gold band, feeling the grooves of the engraved word.  _ Dawn _ . He remembers that bracelet being on Dawn's hand the day she died, remembers Simon slipping it off her stiff arm, clenching it in his own palm tightly as he swallowed back anguished sobs. Putting it to one side of the box, he takes a jagged breath and with trembling fingers, picks an envelope from the box. Lifting the flap, he spots the stamp of the Royal Edinburgh Hospital and slides the letter out, unfolding it as he scans the contents. A stab of guilt causes his chest to tighten but he doesn't stop reading. 

 

**_NHS Emergency Mental Health Assessment Patient #4538: Simon David Williamson, 15/11/1972. Mr. Williamson presented to the Emergency Department during an episode of acute disconnect with reality, complaining of auditory and visual hallucinations. Upon administration of barbiturates and antipsychotics, namely brallobarbital and haloperidol, and being kept overnight for observation, the patient was referred to the Mental Health department once he was deemed stable enough to be released. Upon arrival at my office, Mr Williamson seemed both relieved and frustrated to be here. Despite much coaxing, I could not get him to speak freely about his mental health concerns, reducing our consultation to a number of DSM-IV and DSM-V questionnaires. My initial worry was schizophrenia, upon learning that this was not his first episode of psychosis, but this was quickly discarded given Mr Williamson's history of drug use. Upon completion of the questionnaires, I gathered that the most likely diagnosis was Borderline Personality Disorder, with standalone sociopathic tendencies. Over the course of our consultation, I learned that Mr Williamson is frequently bored, isolates himself and feels a profound emptiness, has a severely distorted self-image which oscillates between feelings of grandiosity and self-hatred, a serious difficulty empathising with others, although the patient is clearly capable of feeling empathy and sympathy. Rather than this being a symptom of a congenital brain dysfunction, it is my belief that Mr Williamson simply does not allow himself to feel. He has a history of unstable relationships and a clear hatred and distaste for his own sexuality. Despite attempting to distance himself from others, there is an evident debilitating fear of abandonment, presumably stemming from multiple traumatic experiences. It is my belief that Mr Williamson uses this as a defense mechanism, as I can tell he yearns for human connection and affection. His moods swing between irrational fury, crippling fear or debilitating depression, each phase lasting anywhere between a few hours to a few weeks. Risky and self destructive behaviours are clear in this patient's history, ranging from promiscuity to drug use, in what the patient himself describes as 'an attempt to feel something other than constantly numb.' Due to all the above symptoms, I have diagnosed Mr Williamson with Borderline Personality Disorder, subtypes petulant and self-destructive and chronic agitated depression, and as such prescribed a regimen consisting of haloperidol, moclobemide and topiramate. A copy of the prescription is attached to this letter. I strongly recommend that Mr Williamson seek regular psychiatric treatment." Sincerely, Dr. A. Synge, MB ChB. 10/05/2015_ **

 

With wide eyes, Mark spots three boxes of medication, all still sealed from the pharmacy, with Simon's name clearly stamped on them all. Hands trembling, he lifts the pills to see a worn, dogeared photo. Upon closer inspection, the brunet realises it's a snapshot from their spur of the moment hiking trip, in the better days, when they were all somewhat clean. The longer he looks at the photo, the more he remembers about the trip itself. Tommy was taking the photo, with Spud lagging behind, using his own disposable to take pictures of everything in sight. Simon's arm was around Mark's shoulders as he looked down on him with an amused expression, watching his friend's hysterical laughter at something the blond had said. Mark thinks he looked genuinely happy and he certainly remembers feeling exhilarated when they finally reached the top of the trail, but Simon's grin doesn't reach his eyes. There's a tenseness in his expression that Mark hadn't spotted at the time. He notes that this is the only item in the box to be so worn out. With a wistful sigh, he reaches the last item in the box. A British Airways ticket. Frowning slightly, the brunet scans the details and, face paling, realises it's a one way ticket to Amsterdam, dated March of 1997. 

He's about to ponder why the ticket hasn't been used, when he's interrupted by Simon's voice, deathly quiet. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Mark rises to his feet too quickly, a universe of technicolour spots filling his vision. “I, was, erm-” 

“You were…?” Simon asks mockingly, crossing his arms. “You have two seconds to give me a good reason not to punch you in the face.” 

“I -” Mark stammers, then sighs, bracing himself for the attack. “I haven't got one.” 

Simon’s eyes fall on the unfolded letter and his jaw tenses. "Did you read this letter?" He asks, voice guttural. Mark feels an urge to lie his way out but he knows there's no way it would work. He nods silently. "Do the words 'Private and Confidential' mean anything to you?" 

"I'm sorry, I had no idea you-" 

"There's a reason for that! If I wanted you to know, I would've told you!" Simon barks, crossing his arms. 

"Are - are you taking the meds?" Mark asks cautiously, knowing the answer. 

"No." 

"Wh-" 

"Because I'm not! Fuck, just go - leave me alone!" 

"I am sorry." 

"Yeah, whatever. Fuck off. I mean it, leave right now or I'll break your fucking arms." With a sigh, Mark steps out of the room, to have the door slam behind him as soon as he clears the doorframe. Simon brings his trembling hands to his skull, interlacing his fingers as he backs away from the door, vision blurred. He growls in frustration, increasingly loudly, until he’s roaring, the noise primal and dripping with rage. He looks at the shoebox on the ground and picks it up, pausing only to remove his daughter’s bracelet before hurling it at the wall, pill boxes clattering to the floor. He heaves in a lungful of air, tugging at his hair. He sinks to his knees, weakly punching the floorboards, as he twirls the bracelet in his other hand, eyes burning with unshed tears. Blinking them back, he haphazardly crams everything into the box, shoving it into his wardrobe, as a hesitant knock on the door breaks the sudden deafening silence. 

“Si?”

“Piss off.” Simon grumbles, throwing the door open despite his words. “What.”

“I know I’m the last person in the world you want to see right now, but, well…” Mark pointedly glances at his watch, to which the blond man sighs. 

“For the record, I’m doing this for her, not you.”

“I know.”

***

 

Simon opens his wardrobe and stares blankly at the rows of shirts, having no idea what he should wear. His usual attire may seem too formal. Then again, it could also seem far too casual. Damn.

"Mark?" Their earlier argument put aside in the interest of seeming normal to the inspector, Simon decides to swallow his pride and ask Mark’s help in looking, at the very least, presentable. “Come here a minute.” 

“Hm?” The brunet asks, tapping away at his phone as he leans against the doorframe. Simon glances back and scoffs. Hearing the sound, Mark looks up and rolls his eyes. “Yeah?” Simon makes a helpless noise, waving his hand at the hangers. "Simon, just wear what you normally do. It's fine." 

"It is  _ not _ fine." 

"Yes it is. Calm down. That navy shirt is nice. Beyond that, your wardrobe doesn't really even have enough va - oh my God, were those jeans I just saw?!" Mark exclaims, a grin on his face. 

Simon narrows his eyes, pointedly shoving other clothes in that direction to hide the jeans. "You saw nothing." 

"Last time I saw you in jeans was, what, more than 20 years ago! Wow." An unreadable expression briefly clouds Mark's face before he clears his throat. "Anyway, navy shirt. I need to get changed too. Can you handle this alone or do you need me to do up the buttons too?" 

"Hilarious." Simon grumbles, waving a chuckling Mark off. With a slight, reluctant smile, the blond turns back to his wardrobe and reaches for the navy shirt. 

 

***

 

"Stop pacing." Mark murmurs from the kitchen table, pencil in his mouth as he mulls over a crossword clue, the very picture of relaxation. Simon has no idea how he does it. He feels his hands shaking so he stuffs them in his pockets, biting his lip. Just as he's about to tell Mark that he can't do this, the doorbell rings and he feels his breath catch in his chest. He throws a look towards Mark who rolls his eyes and stands, striding over to open the door. The social worker smiles warmly at Mark and he shakes his hand, opening the door wider to let him in. "Jack Sears." He announces, extending his hand toward Simon. By some divine miracle, the blond manages to give the hand a firm shake, nodding as he does so. 

"Would you like some tea, coffee?" Mark asks, gesturing towards the kitchen. Jack grins, rubbing his pale hands together. “A cuppa sounds lovely.” 

“Through here,” Mark smiles, gesturing towards the living room, flicking the kettle on as Jack and Simon sit on the sofa, the blond looking even paler than usual. As the water begins to gently bubble, the brunet sits on an armchair nearest the kitchen. Jack nods curtly and reaches into his briefcase, producing a clipboard which he lays on his lap, taking out a pen from his inner breast pocket. 

“I see your main social worker at the moment is Donna Wallace?”

“That’s right.” Simon clears his throat, folding his hands in his lap. 

Jack bites his lip, a cheeky smile threatening to break out. “My condolences.”

“Mm, so it’s not just us to think that she’s -” Mark murmurs, pausing to gather his thoughts.

“No. But as uptight and unkind she may seem, she does truly care about getting the best outcome for everyone involved.” 

“At least she's not the one doing this visit.” Mark comments, glancing at Simon who nods in agreement, huffing out a laugh. “So, how long have you two been together?”

“Six years.” Mark answers easily, startling Simon. He was not expecting his friend to be so comfortable in this lie, especially given the fact that, when it’s just the two of them, the brunet avoids all mention of whatever the hell is going on between them. He clears his throat, hearing the kettle click off, and wordlessly heads to the kitchen, preparing the tea as he listens to the conversation in the sitting room. 

“Oh, a fair bit. How’d you two meet? Myself and my husband met at a drag show. He spilled his strawberry daiquiri on me ‘cause he got hit in the face with a wig. I still haven’t forgiven him. That was my favourite shirt.” 

"That's - wow." Simon splutters, eyes widening as he brings in the mugs of steaming tea. "I, er -"

"We met in primary school. How very cliché, right?" Mark interjects, grinning widely. "Nowhere near as interesting as your story. Frankly, I feel inadequate."

Jack laughs, "It's certainly an attention grabber. Are you in a civil partnership or married?"

"No."

"Any plans to?"

"Er, not at the moment." 

Jack nods, scrawling on a form. "Are you both in full time employment?"

"Yes, I work as a leasing agent and Simon manages his family's pub." These questions, answered by Simon on autopilot, with a lot of prompting from Mark, last until long after the tea has been drunk. Eventually, Jack flashes a smile and moves to stand. 

“Alright if we do the walk-around now?”

“Sure.” Simon croaks out, rising to his feet. “Erm, it probably goes without saying that I haven’t got a single clue where to start with this, so if you wouldn’t mind…”

Jack smiles warmly, patting the blond on the shoulder. “Try to relax, I promise this is just a formality.”

Simon manages a tiny smile and takes a deep breath, gesturing towards the kitchen. “Let’s get to it then.”

 

***

 

After what feels like a million years, yet no time at all, they all gather in the living room once more. Simon bites down on his lip as Jack flips through his clipboard. 

"Well, it's spotless, which is impressive." He smiles, clearing his throat. "There's a couple of issues I found - don't worry, they're all minor things. I'll email you a list later on tonight. It's stuff like a loose plug on a lamp, nothing major." 

"Alright, we'll take care of those." Mark nods, propping one arm on his hip. Simon watches his shirt stretch over his abdomen and he swallows, mouth suddenly dry. Mark glances over towards Simon and claps a hand onto his shoulder. "Breathe." 

"Mark's right, there's nothing to worry about. You've passed! With flying colours." 

"We - did?" Simon chokes out, eyes wide. 

Jack laughs heartily. "Of course you did. This wasn't just a chance for me to judge whether a child could live here happily and safely, it was also an opportunity to judge your dedication towards getting this child. It's clear that you both already love her. So take a breather, celebrate! I know this is a long process but you're one huge step closer to completing it." They see him out, Simon feeling as though he's walking through a haze of sheer disbelief. He flops down onto the sofa and gapes into space, barely hearing Mark's laughter behind him.

“We actually did it.” The blond mumbles, and Mark claps him on the shoulder, walking over to the fridge to take out two beers, throwing one towards his friend. Simon catches it reflexively, barely looking as he pops it open with his chain. The cool, earthy liquid soothes his mind and he takes a deep breath, glancing at Mark. 

“Of course we did. Any plans for celebration?” 

Simon pauses, taking a long swig of his beer. “If you're implying we do something together, forget it. I haven't forgotten what you did.”

Mark sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I'm going to the pub.” When Simon doesn't respond, the brunet shrugs on a jacket and sweeps out of the flat, the door slamming shut behind him.  

 

He’s almost down at the nearest pub when his phone vibrates with an incoming text. It reads only  _ Well?  _ And the sender is none other than Simon. Humming in thought, he tucks his phone into his breast pocket, unsure whether or not he was the intended recipient. 

 

He enters the rustic pub and beelines to a booth tucked away at the far end. Sliding into the faux leather upholstered seat, he runs a hand across his face and exhales deeply. He’s not sure why he even came to a pub. Seeing Simon in the state he was the previous night, Mark’s appetite for alcohol is at an all time low. As he peruses the specials of the evening, his phone vibrates again, startling him enough that he drops the laminated menu card. Cursing under his breath, he answers with a curt, exhausted, ‘’Yeah?’’

"Hey, it's -" 

Mark makes no effort to stifle his groan of exasperation. Ryan. Of course. “What do you want?”

Ryan sighs on the other end. "To talk. To apologise."

"Well, I don't wanna hear it." 

"Yeah, I figured as much. Please, I know you owe me nothing but open the door, let me explain -" 

"Open the door? Are you at the flat?" Mark exclaims, narrowing his eyes.. "What if I'm not home?" 

"Aren't you?" Ryan sounds genuinely confused and Mark inhales deeply, wondering if this is just a ploy to get Mark to talk to him. 

"No. What made you think I'm home?" 

"Well I - there's two people's shadows inside. I thought..." 

"Well, I'm not home. Simon probably has someone over." The words feel bitter as he says them and a sharp ache forms in his chest. He sighs. "Wanna talk? Come to the pub. I'll text you the address. Probably best to talk in public anyway, given your inclination to manhandle me." Without waiting for Ryan's response, he hangs up and types out a text, seeing another one from Simon, sent just after the first one.  _ He's gone. Come over. Unless you've changed your mind? _ Clearly, those texts are not intended for Mark. But who are they intended for? Suddenly, with those texts, how natural it felt to act like Simon’s partner, how much he regrets seeing that box, and most of all, having to see Ryan again, well… Suddenly, a drink doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. Flagging down a passing waitress, he orders a scotch on ice and watches the door wearily, regretting answering that phone call. 

 

Just as the waitress sets down the glass, Ryan walks in and pauses, looking around. Mark desperately avoids eye contact but Ryan notices him anyway, heading over, exuding confidence. 

"I'm s-" He begins, before even reaching the booth Mark is sitting in. 

"I don't want to hear it.” Mark growls, throwing his hands up. "See this?  _ You  _ did this!" He points at the darkening bruises on his wrists and then at Ryan. "I'm not going to be with someone who thinks this is fucking okay! I don’t want a relationship based entirely on fear!" 

"You - you're afraid of me?" Ryan asks, voice barely above a whisper. Something about it sounds insincere but the brunet is too incensed to dwell on his instincts.  

"No, right now I'm pissed at you. What gave you the right to threaten me? To lay your fucking hands on me?!" 

"Nothing, I -" 

"Fucking right, nothing! I get you were annoyed that I kept bailing on you, I was too. But you aren't the only person in my life, I have work, friends, other commitments that I can't drop because I'm seeing someone. Simon needed my help and I gladly provided it, because he's my best friend. And if you can't understand that, then we're done, because it never would've worked. I wished I was spending more time with you but at the same time, I wanted to take things slowly. No commitments, no - no expectations. I'm in the middle of a messy divorce, a stressful home situation and a full time job. The last thing I need is a partner that uses violence on me, because I'm not going to take that shit." Mark stops his rant to pick his glass up and down half the drink in one go. He stares at Ryan intensely, as the blond struggles to find words other than 'sorry'. 

Finally, he sighs and lowers his head. "I understand. Everything you said, you're right. You don't deserve to be treated like that. I am truly sorry. I do care for you, Mark. I'm sorry if I didn't act like it. I - is there any way you can give us a second chance? Give me? ... A second chance?"

“Ryan, this isn’t a case of us disagreeing about something trivial. Not only were things going much too fast for me, you then threatened me ‘cause you’re jealous! I can’t ignore that just ‘cause you grovelled a bit and said you were sorry. How do I know you won’t do it again?”

Ryan bites his lip and brushes a hand through his immaculate hair, exhaling. He looks as though he wants to close in on himself, and despite his annoyance, Mark feels a pang of sympathy. While he did feel their relationship was progressing much faster than he’d have liked, he couldn’t deny that Ryan has a charm about him that makes it impossible to resist him. Finally, the blond clears his throat. “You don’t know. You can take a chance and I promise I’ll never let this happen again. But I understand your hesitation.”

“Do you?” Mark asks, leaning forward. “You think I’m blowing this out of proportion, don’t you?” Mark’s sleeves ride up as he stretches the fabric, and Ryan’s eyes are on his wrists once again. The brunet  _ swears  _ he sees a glimmer of pride in his companion’s eyes, but it disappears just as quick as it appeared. Leaning back, he catches the eye of his waitress as she walks by, motioning for another drink. She returns before the silence between the two men can be broken, and Mark takes a measured sip. “It's pointless for me to lie to you. I like you. You know I do. And I want it to work out, really. I feel like we could've had something.”

“We still can. Please. I promise I'll do better.” Mark sighs and looks away, biting his lip. “You're worth so much more, I am so sorry. I know words can't fix it but is there anything I can do?” Ryan looks up at him through his eyelashes and god damn, it's impossible to stay mad. For a split second Mark swears he's seen that exact look before, but he can't put his finger on where. 

“Well,” Mark clears his throat, a faint smile ghosting his lips, “I  _ am  _ dating a luxury hotel VIP, aren't I?” 

Ryan chuckles, leaning forward. “I suppose you are…” 

“And since Simon has someone over, we may need somewhere with a bit more privacy…” 

"Is this your way of asking to see a penthouse suite at one of my hotels?" 

"Might be." Mark shrugs, lips betraying his true emotions with the ghost of a smile. The blond flashes Mark a grin, stepping outside the pub, phone to his ear. The brunet exhales, sipping his drink as he waits for Ryan to return. He figures one more chance can't hurt, right? Everyone does things they regret. God knows Mark’s done more than most. 

A short while later, Ryan saunters back in, tucking his phone into his inner breast pocket, grinning at Mark as he slides into the booth. 

“Well?”

“Well,” Ryan clears his throat, “couldn't get us anything at one of my hotels. But I'll do you one better. Pulled some strings, got us a penthouse suite at The Bellmount.”

“You son of a bitch.” Mark smirks. “But honestly, as long as it has a big bed, I don't care.”

“Oh, is that how it is?”

“What if it is?” Mark purrs, leaning over the table to kiss Ryan, just as the blond’s phone begins ringing. Sighing in disappointment, as Ryan steps away to take the call, Mark takes the time to finish his drink and place a tip on the table, the prospect of spending the night with someone other than Simon being very attractive. He promises himself he'll stop thinking about Simon but somehow he already knows he won't be able to. 

 

***

 

The hotel room is bigger than their entire flat, with a huge ensuite with a jacuzzi and, as promised, a king size bed with the softest looking pillows Mark's ever seen. He actually finds himself wanting to just fall asleep on them, but Ryan seems to have his expectations set, as he carefully closes the distance between them, locking the door as he does so. Mark closes his eyes, going through the motions, as Ryan’s strong hands make their way to the small of the brunet’s back. Eventually, his mind wanders. Physically, Ryan's doing all he should be and more, but for whatever reason, he can't make himself focus on the moment. So, he gets lost in his thoughts, absently wondering who Simon's got over. He finds himself hoping that whoever it is, doesn't leave him satisfied, then immediately chides himself. Simon deserves to have someone as a distraction too. Especially considering his best friend left him to celebrate passing the inspection alone just so he could focus on his own troubled love life, having completely betrayed his trust,  _ again,  _ just hours before. With a small sigh, he forces those thoughts from his head and does his best to focus only on what's going on in the room, alcohol haze numbing his brain. 

 

***

 

Mark wakes to a ray of afternoon sunlight focused directly on his eyes. As he rolls over sleepily, he notices a note on the pillow next to him. Propping himself up on his elbow, he skims the paper, blinking away the sleep.

 

/ _ Good morning, gorgeous. I had to go to work but I’ll call you later. Order whatever you want from room service, it’s all on me. Talk soon x. PS. Did you know you talk in your sleep? It’s adorable. / _

 

The brunet drops the note onto the sheets, rolling onto his back as he slowly wakes up. He feels a slightly unpleasant taste in his mouth at being called gorgeous and adorable but he ignores it, running a hand down his face. With a sigh, he sits up and gets dressed, smoothing down his shirt in a futile attempt to look more put together than he feels. With a last look around the massive room, he steps out, the door clicking shut behind him. 

 

***

Just as his hand falls on the door handle to the flat, he stops himself. He doesn't know if Simon’s ‘night time companion’ isn't still there. Barging in on that is not on his to-do list. Taking a calming breath, he loudly turns the key in the lock, announcing himself as he enters. Simon rounds the corner, hand pressed to his eye as he yawns, clearly only half aware of his surroundings. 

"Late night?" Mark quips, ignoring the feeling in his stomach at the sight of Simon in nothing but a ridiculously low hanging pair of pyjama bottoms. The blond grumbles in response and heads to the kitchen, stabbing a button on the coffee maker in silence. In the daylight-flooded kitchen, his bruises become more apparent. Simon’s ribcage is painted with varying shades of red and purple, with an angry red patch snaking up his neck and onto his jaw. “Christ, what happened to you?”

“Ah…” Simon shrugs, waving Mark off. “Deal didn’t go as planned.”

“ _ Simon!” _

“Relax. I didn’t take anything.  _ Please  _ spare me the lecture.”

"I thought you'd told me about all your hiding spots for -" Mark's voice breaks and he clears his throat, shaking his head. 

Simon watches him levelly for a moment before speaking. "I did. You didn't ask about the ones at the pub. Those ones are the ones I'm trying to get rid of." 

"So what happened?" 

"Motherfucker thought he could get smart, knock me out then take my money so that he had both the junk and the cash." 

"Seems he got you a good few times." Mark murmurs, gesturing at the angry bruises. 

Simon shrugs. "I got off light. Don't think he's gonna be pulling that stunt any time soon. What about you?" The blond smirks slightly, pointing at a deep crimson bruise on his friend's neck. "That wasn't there yesterday..."

Mark’s hand flies to the hickey, clearing his throat in embarrassment. “Well. Ryan and I met up, and…”

“His place again?”

“Nope. Penthouse Suite in the Bellmount.” Mark averts his gaze in faux modesty, despite thoroughly enjoying the jealous grimace on his friend’s face. 

"Well, fuck me, I wonder what other perks dating a rich motherfucker like him can bring." "How about the comfort of spending time with someone you have feelings for? Or sharing a bed with someone?" Mark muses, stifling a giggle when Simon snorts, eyes derisory. He yawns, then gently rubs his tender jaw, grimace on his features. "How bad is it?" 

"Fine. Not the first time I've had a fight." Simon shrugs, sitting down at the table. Mark joins him, watching as his friend slowly wakes up and begins responding to his surroundings. Simon waking up is a sight Mark will never get tired of seeing. “Quit staring at me.”

“I’m not staring at you. I’m staring at that coffee you gladly made for yourself but didn’t offer ‘round.”

“Come off it Mark, you’re a big boy, big enough to get hickeys, definitely big enough to work the coffee maker.” Simon arches an eyebrow at Mark, brushing past him on the way to his room. Something in the way he says this makes warmth brew in the brunet’s abdomen. He runs a hand through his hair, dropping his head onto the table, one hand idly brushing over the love bite on his neck.

***

Simon returns wearing an obscenely tight navy shirt with his usual casual suit and Mark curses himself for wanting the buttons to give into the strain. A cigarette is hanging from the blond’s lips and Mark hums absently. “Now I know how you keep your figure.” Simon snorts, taking a drag as he pulls out a chair, straddling it, one hand already unlocking his phone. 

“Don’t have time for breakfast, I never do.”

“What is it that you're so busy doing?" Mark asks as he digs through the cupboards for a mug. As he turns around, Simon throws him a secretive smirk, glancing down at his phone. "Seriously." 

"I have to have some secrets, don't I? Or else, where's the fun in our friendship?" Mark shrugs, knowing there's something Simon's obviously hiding but no amount of nagging will get it out of him. Simon's always been very good at keeping secrets. As Mark pours the steaming coffee into his mug, Simon briefly leaves, coming back with his phone pressed to his ear as he finishes off his cigarette. "Mm? Yeah, I - why? What's the occasion? I don't - okay, fine. Yeah, probably. Will there be booze? Right, well then that's my attendance guaranteed. See ya." 

"What's up?" Mark asks. 

Simon shrugs. "Diane's having a party ‘cause she won a pretty difficult case. She wants us both there, God only knows why. You're insufferable when you're drunk."

“Forgive me for not drinking as much as you and being affected by alcohol.” Mark barks, frowning. “What time does she want us over?”

“Six.”

“We should get her something, shouldn’t we?”

“Wine. Safest bet, and she can go through a bottle of White Zin in an hour flat.”

“How do you know so much about her? Since when are you two so close?” Mark asks, a note of badly hidden jealousy staining the words.

“I know her because, unlike you, I spent 20 years  _ here _ . It’s called respect for your friends.”

"I'm gonna ignore that, in favour of asking -- you know of respect? What a shock." 

"Watch it, you might just be going to the party with a shiny new black eye." 

"Yeah right, as if." Mark grins, stretching leisurely. "I'm going for a shower." 

"Kay. I'll get the wine." Simon announces, grabbing his keys and heading for the door. Mark nods, forcing himself to ignore the urge to ask Simon to join him instead. What the fuck is going on with him? Frankly, it worries him. A lot. A night of pounding music and alcohol is exactly what he needs to clear his head. If it isn’t, he’ll seriously consider signing himself into a psych ward.

 

***

 

Simon opens the door to hear the shower still running, and he frowns in confusion. Mark isn't one to take long showers. In fact, he takes joy in teasing Simon about his hour long showers. Simon silently takes it, knowing that if he argues, he'll eventually slip up and tell him that the reason is he never sleeps right, and the hot water feels like a warm hug from someone who cares. If that ever comes to light, he'll die of embarrassment. Sighing slightly, Simon rubs his eyes and sets the bag on the kitchen table, hearing a strange sound from somewhere in the flat. Focusing, he realises it sounds like a groan. Immediately, his adrenaline spikes. What if Mark's heart gave out again? He hates himself for it, but he worries. With bated breath, he walks over to the bathroom, knuckles poised to knock when he hears something that makes his heart stop completely. Clear as day, even through the mechanical hum of the shower, Simon hears his name groaned in pleasure. 

"Oh, good fuck, oh -" He hisses, cheeks burning as he steps back, pressing a hand to his face. "Shit." He freezes in place, torn between the need to know that he isn't hearing things,  _ again _ , and the rational option of walking away and pretending he heard nothing. Choosing rational, Simon attempts to distract himself, waiting until he hears the shower shut off. "Have you seen the party bags? They’re usually in top of the fridge." He does everything in his power to avoid eye contact, nonchalantly opening cupboards.

"Er, yeah, I -" Mark stutters, cheeks flushing. "I put them in your wardrobe. I, er, I hadn't realised you'd come back." 

Simon smirks slightly, arching an eyebrow. "Clearly." 

Mark clears his throat, lowering his head as he ducks for his room, shutting the door with a quiet click. Simon sighs, then hums in contemplation. Perhaps teasing Mark would bring some answers? He mulls over this idea as he roots in his wardrobe for a wine bag, patiently waiting for Mark to step out of his room again. When he does, Simon is temporarily speechless. Wearing a pair of dark, slim fit jeans, a white t-shirt and a blazer, he looks more attractive than ever. Clearing his throat, he plasters on a smirk, following Mark to the kitchen where the brunet grabs an apple, in an obvious attempt to act casual. “What was that you were singing in the shower, Rentboy?” Mark freezes, mid bite, eyes slowly travelling to Simon. The look in them is indecipherable but if the blond had to guess, he'd call it murderous. "Well?" The brunet slowly chews the mouthful, unblinking.

When he sees Simon is not budging, he changes his method, shrugging as he looks away. "It's called, why the hell were you listening?" 

"Kinda hard not to." Simon states nonchalantly, leaning against the wall. "Seemed you were very, uh, into it. Ryan not doing what he's supposed to?"

“Can you fuck off please? I am not having this discussion with you.”

“Well then let’s discuss that outfit. Knockoffs aren’t a good look, mate.” Simon knows he’s grasping at straws, but he can’t let Mark see how shaken up he is. 

"Fuck’s sake, what's up with you?" 

"Nothing. I get that being gone for 20 years, you forget some things, but this is how I've always been." Simon shrugs, acting nonchalant and indifferent but he knows his shoulders are tense and he's being snappy. Something about Mark  _ moaning his name in the shower _ bothers him for a reason he can't fully articulate. "Are you ready to go?" 

"Yeah. Listen. Ryan and I are fine, and I don't plan on telling you all the gory details of my sex life. So, whatever you're hoping to achieve with your sarcastic remarks... Just quit it, yeah?" Mark speaks, voice dangerously low. Simon freezes, unaware that Mark knew of his end game. 

"Yeah, I'm not planning on achieving anything." He snaps, "I just take joy in embarrassing and annoying you. Couldn't care less about your sex life." 

"Right." Mark mumbles, clearly unconvinced. “I’m not continuing this discussion for Diane’s sake, but I’m serious.  _ Lay off it. _ ”

With just a scoff as a response, Simon throws the door open, thrusting the wine into Mark’s hand as he jogs down the stairs, biting his lip to keep himself from speaking. He can’t trust himself anymore. Not around Mark. 

  
  
  
  



End file.
